


Steve Rogers and the Tri-Wizard Tournament

by gryffindor17



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Celebrity Crush, Crush at First Sight, Flirting, Marvel Cameos, Matchmaking, Multi, Mutual Pining, References to MCU, Romantic Comedy, Social Justice Warrior Bucky Barnes, Social Justice Warrior Steve Rogers, Tropes, X-Men Cameos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 12:57:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 51,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3250493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryffindor17/pseuds/gryffindor17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s not a person who walks the halls of Hogwarts who doesn’t know Steve Rogers: the boy with the righteous streak, hot temper, and massive crush on the Romanian Longhorns’ star Chaser, Bucky Barnes. But Bucky exists to Steve only on the front page of The Daily Prophet. He has long since resigned himself to admiring from afar, catching games when he can or otherwise following Barnes’s crusade against injustice through printed page.</p><p>Until the man himself walks into the Great Hall on the first night of their Seventh Year.</p><p>Bucky’s life outside of the spotlight is hardly worthy of a footnote, never mind a headline, but no one wants to read about Bucky Barnes being found face-down and fast asleep between the shelves of Durmstrang’s impressive library. Between his studies and the Quidditch Finals looming around the corner, the last thing Bucky needs is something like the Tri-Wizard Tournament. He knows Headmaster Pierce is expecting him to volunteer, but all Bucky really wants is to pass his N.E.W.T.S. and maybe twist The Minister’s arm into passing the bill about guaranteed pay for House Elves.</p><p>That is until he spots Merlin’s gift to man sitting at the Gryffindor table.</p><p>Then things get complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Tri-Wizard Tournament

**Author's Note:**

> OH YEAH. THIS IS WHAT WE'RE DOING NOW.
> 
> So it has come to my attention that this fandom has a glaring lack of Hogwarts AU's and, really, I feel like it's the bread and butter of all AUs. Everybody's got them. And this is my contribution to the cause. It's practically community service, if you think about it... This idea has been nagging at me while I’ve been trying to tie up my other AU, so anyone also reading Leap Year ought to know that the final chapter is underway, but I am easily distracted and literally COULD NOT keep writing without getting this story started, too. It is one of my many character faults.
> 
> ANYWAY.
> 
> So let's pretend, for a moment, that Hogwarts accepts American students. Also, I feel the need to say that while I am borrowing his world, Harry Potter does not exist in this AU. While I'm at it, I should say that I neither own Harry Potter nor the idea of the Tri-Wizard Tournament nor any of the wonderful details of Rowling's world. 
> 
> Also, before we get this show on the road, I feel the need to say that if you do not agree with the Houses I've sorted the characters in to, I'm sorry! I respect other people's headcannons, but I put a lot of thought into my own and I hope you will respect them, too.
> 
> Comments and kudos and ramblings and smoke signals are always welcome. I am here to be yelled at/whispered at/squealed at/flailed at so use me at your disposal. I love hearing from you guys and your kindness and critiques have helped me grow as a writer.
> 
> SO WHO'S READY FOR A HARRY POTTER VS. MARVEL-PALOOZA?

_Steve Rogers._

The mere mention of him prompts wistful sighs from the highest peak of Ravenclaw Tower to the lowest pits of the Slytherin dungeons. 

Gryffindors love him for his nerve. No one else can talk Professor Phillips into a corner quite like Rogers can, and he won’t stop until Phillips admits that the injustices which wizards claim against the Muggles are the exact same which wizards continue to perpetuate against other magical creatures. “ _The House Elves in the kitchen, for example, Professor Phillips? The giants in Romania? Or how about the Centaurs in the Forbidden Forest, sir?_ ” Oh yeah, Rogers will go red in the face over just about anything.

Hufflepuffs admire his loyalty to his friends and his dedication to creating safe outlets for wizarding students within the walls of Hogwarts. His Muggle Born and Pure Blood Relations club has been a resounding success and his influence is the sole reason why you’re likely to catch the sons and daughters of prestigious Pure Blood families donning t-shirts boasting everything from One Direction to Mountain Dew. 

Ravenclaws admire his quiet intelligence. His grades aren’t quite as gilded as his reputation, but there isn’t a Ravenclaw alive that can call Steve dim witted. Sometimes, on a particularly rainy Sunday morning, Steve can be found in a battle of riddles with The Grey Lady over breakfast. Rarely does he ever win, but that’s more a testament to The Grey Lady’s brilliance than to Steve’s limitations, though every once in a while he’ll stump her and she’ll smile a slow, awed smile before rising from the table and drifting away. 

But of all the houses, it is perhaps Slytherin house who most reveres Steve Rogers. Their head of house, Professor Darkhölme, watches him with her haunting yellow eyes and often wonders how it could have been that Steve didn’t end up in her house. At least once a week there’s a student in Madame Temples’s office with some small injury claiming it to be the work of Steve Rogers. More often than not it’s a series of heinous warts protruding from their forehead, labeling them ‘MISOGYNIST’ or ‘PURIST’ or ‘RACIST’ in painful looking blemishes, though Rogers has never been too good for a classic right hook, either. Steve is practically a Slytherin hero, seeing as how he’s lost Gryffindor more house points than any other student combined for the past six years running.

When asked about his reputation as Hogwarts’ resident vigilante, Steve will blush from his cheeks to his chest and deny it, never one to toot his own horn. He leaves all the tooting to Sam, who’s always more than happy to gloat about how his best friend tore all the assigned gender signs off the bathroom doors in a sign of support for non-binary students.

Steve prides himself not on his actions, which he believes are a sign of humanity more than heroism, but on the fact that most everyone in Hogwarts considers him a friend. There’s not a person who wanders the halls of Hogwarts who doesn’t know Steve Rogers: the boy with the righteous streak, hot temper, and massive crush on the Romanian Longhorns’ star Chaser, James “Bucky” Barnes. 

Steve didn’t let that last part slip himself. That was the work of Clint and his big fucking mouth. And it’s not a crush, its _admiration_! As Keeper and Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team himself, he can certainly appreciate Barnes’s technique and control of his broom and his…ball handling…

Alright, so it’s a crush. One that Steve’s had since his fifth year when Barnes first joined the Longhorns roster and shot to immediate stardom after scoring 570 points his rookie year. To say Steve is enamored would be an understatement, especially after the stunt Barnes pulled at the Quidditch World Cup when he’d charmed his uniform to proudly boast the colors of the bisexual flag following a rather nasty disagreement with his management about the nature of his relationships. Barnes scored 170 points that night, a poignant middle finger to anyone who thought his sexuality had anything to do with his ability to perform. 

Steve dropped ten galleons on a Barnes jersey the next day.

But it didn’t stop there. Following the World Cup, Barnes went on to campaign for the ethical treatment of the dragons from which his team drew their namesake. It has since become unlawful for Longhorns to be poached or placed in captivity, due in no small part to Barnes’s advocacy. Then there was the march on The Ministry that Barnes had organized in an effort to bring attention towards the lack of proper education allotted to non-Wizard folk. He made headlines when he dropped nearly 20,000 galleons of his own money to found the first ever school for House Elves looking to improve both their magic and their minds.

It’s easy to forget sometimes that Barnes is older than Steve only by a couple of months. When he’s not on the Quidditch pitch or saving kittens from trees, Barnes attends Durmstrang Institute. He, too, will be returning this semester for his seventh year despite rumors that he was going to drop out in order to play full time. Barnes had scoffed at the claim.

“What kind of example does that set, huh?” he’d asked in response. “How am I supposed to tell kids to stay in school if I don’t?”

“You should get his name tattooed on your ass,” Clint joked around a mouth full of cereal at breakfast during their Sixth Year, “he practically owns it anyway.”

But there would be no tattoos on Steve’s ass to speak of, despite Clint’s repeated offers to do it for him. Bucky Barnes exists to Steve only on the front page of The Daily Prophet. Steve has long since resigned himself to admiring from afar, catching games when he can or otherwise following Barnes’s crusade against injustice through printed page. 

Until the man himself walks into the Great Hall on the first night of Seventh Year.

***

“On your right!”

That’s all the warning Steve gets before Sam flies by him on his right side, followed by a strong wind that nearly topples the precarious stack of trunks he’s balancing in his arms for a couple of doe-eyed Second Years.

Sam is incredibly down to earth, though his feet rarely ever touch the ground. If he’s not on his broomstick, he’s thinking about being on his broomstick, and when he is on his broomstick, he’s thinking about when the next time he’ll be able to get on his broom stick is. Last year, Headmaster Fury actually confiscated Sam’s broom and kept it locked in his office after Sam started flying to class every morning. That lasted all of a week before Sam and Steve broke into Fury’s office and stole back the limited edition Falcon 0-100, the fastest broom in production.

“What’s your hurry?” Steve calls, voice muffled by the trunks.

His answer comes a moment later when Tony Stark flies by on Steve’s left, nothing more than a black, silver, and green blur before he disappears from sight.

“Give it back, Wilson!”

Tony Stark wears his last name like a crown, which for all intents and purposes, it might as well be. Howard Stark, Tony’s late father, made a name for himself in Muggle-Wizard relations, leading to the invention of the prototypical Hover Car, a combination between Muggle engineering and Wizard charm. Tony carries on his father’s legacy both as a brilliant inventor and as a proud traitor to his pure blood, but he isn’t above a little inter-house rivalry, hence the game of Capture the Flag that he and Sam have been playing since First Year. It seems Sam’s got the jump start this year. Steve imagines he’s got the Slytherin House banner tucked into his pocket, lifted from the rafters of The Great Hall.

Just when Steve thinks he’s got a handle on the trunks again, Headmaster Fury flies overhead, following Sam and Tony while muttering under his breath something that Steve dare not repeat in the company of Second Years. The trunks tip dangerously, nearly toppling over before someone on the other side catches them.

He’s not surprised to see Pepper Potts as she takes some of his burdensome load into her own arms, though she looks a bit surprised to see him. Pepper’s got a sixth sense for when shit’s about to go wrong, though it usually leads her directly to Tony.

“Steve! I didn’t think you were here yet.” She says by way of greeting, falling into step beside him. The oncoming tide of students parts like the Red Sea, allowing them to move along without hindrance. That never happens for Steve. It’s a Pepper thing.

Hufflepuff prefect in her sixth year, Head Girl in her seventh, Pepper Potts sits atop Hogwarts’ student body with grace. When she approaches the spinning staircase, the steps lurch towards her as if on command. She walks the corridors with enough confidence to kill a man, and should she ever do just that, she’d probably get away with it.

“Just got in, actually.” Steve replies, checking over his shoulder to make sure he’s still got his two Hufflepuffs in tow behind him. “Caught these guys lost on the staircase,” he explains.

Pepper hums in sympathy. They chat companionably until they arrive at the painted portrait of the pear that stands sentinel at the entrance of the Hufflepuff common room. Pepper shifts the weight of the trunks to one arm and reaches forward to tickle the pear. It gives a delighted giggle before the frame swings open, revealing the long hall beyond.

“Thanks Captain Rogers!” The children cry, taking their trunks and shuffling along the hall, waddling a bit under the weight.

“It’s…Steve…” Steve says belatedly. 

Pepper swings the frame shut and pouts. “Why do you get a fan club?”

Steve scoffs, “I do not have a fan club.”

“Captain Rogers?”

Pepper and Steve both turn to find Phil Coulson, Second Year Hufflepuff and president of the nonexistent Steve Rogers Fan Club, standing behind them with a twinkle in his eyes that shines only for Steve.

The Sorting Hat didn’t even touch little Phil Coulson’s head before it declared him a Hufflepuff. Fiercely loyal and dedicated to working hard, Phil boasts the Hufflepuff colors with pride. His first year at Hogwarts was tough, but he survived with the help of Captain Rogers, always ready to lend a hand to anyone in need, and boy, was Phil ever in need of help in Transfiguration. (Professor Darkhölme scares him, though he feels better about her class knowing that Steve is a little afraid of her, too.)

Pepper gives Steve a pointed look. “Has Phil showed you his trading cards?

“Trading cards?” Steve echoes.

“He’s very proud.”

“Oh, can I, Captain Rogers? Can I? Can I? _Can I?_ ” Phil begs, clasping his hands beneath his chin and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“I have…trading cards?”

“Correction, _Phil_ has trading cards. Of you. They’re one of a kind. He made them himself.” Pepper says. She’s almost insufferably smug as she mouths the word ‘ _Fan Club_ ’.

Phil shoves the aforementioned cards in Steve’s face, standing on the tips of his toes to wave them in front of Steve’s eyes. “I lifted the official statistics from Fury’s office,” he explains proudly. “You made 137 saves last year, did you know that? That’s 840 saves over the past six years! All’s you got to do is save 58 shots this year and you’ll be the best Keeper in Hogwarts history!”

“Wow, Phil, that’s…” Steve takes the cards from Phil’s hand and looks them over, “impressive.”

“I’m gonna try out for Quidditch this year!” Phil exclaims. “Seeker, I think. While I’m still small enough to play, anyway. I’ve been practicing all summer!”

“Oh yeah?” Steve asks.

“You bet!” Phil says cheerily. “Been watching Quidditch all summer. Did you see the Longhorns in the semi-finals?”

Steve perks up. “Oh, absolutely!”

“Barnes scored the winning point—”

“—seconds before the Irish caught the Snitch!” Steve cries, reaching low to high five Phil. “Romania 270, Ireland 260. Amazing game!”

Phil stares the offered high five and promptly faints, passing out right there in the corridor with nothing more than a dreamy sigh. 

Steve lowers his hand slowly. “I—should we move him?”

Pepper sighs heavily and stoops down, scooping Phil into her arms with a fondly exasperated expression usually reserved for Tony. “You go on. I’m sure there are plenty more doting admirers who need help with their trunks.” She holds out a hand to Steve. “The cards, please? He doesn’t go anywhere without them.”

Steve hands over the cards, resolutely ignoring the smug grin on Pepper’s face as he turns to leave. He hears the pear giggle again as he turns the corner, falling back into the tide of students that no longer make room for him without Pepper Potts in tow.

“Master Rogers!” A squeaky voice calls to him.

Steve recognizes it. He turns this way and that, trying to find the source.

“Master Rogers, down here, sir!” Steve looks down to find a House Elf tugging at the leg of his pants, urging him towards the kitchen. Steve follows.

The kitchen is alive tonight as House Elves work to prepare the Welcoming Feast. Steve knows the conditions are about as good as any and that Headmaster Fury compensates them well, but his stomach still turns to know that House Elves live their lives in blind subjugation. It’s taken him six years to get them to call him Master Rogers as opposed to just Master. Steve has taken the time to learn their names, despite their resistance to do the same.

For instance, it’s Wally who guides him to the pantry and climbs up the small step stool to fetch a box of—

“Poptarts?” Steve asks, looking the box over with disbelief.

Wally nods emphatically. “Master Odinson was very specific, Master Rogers.” Wally puffs out his chest and puts his small hands on his hips, “I ask you a favor, Elves of the House. Might you procure for me a box of the Popping Tarts?” He says in a spot-on imitation of Steve’s fellow Gryffindor.

Steve shrugs, “Well, alright. I’ll be sure he gets them, then.”

Wally steps down from the stool and begins pushing at Steve’s shins, urging him towards the door. “I’m sorry, Master Rogers, but I must ask you to go now! Much work to be done for the big night. Biggest night of all nights, Fury says! Fury says it’s a big night, indeed!” He prattles.

Steve’s brows draw together in confusion. “What do you mean? It’s the Welcoming Feast, nothing you guys haven’t done a thousand times before, right?” He asks.

Wally freezes like he’s been struck and immediately drops to his knees and begins banging his head off the floor. “Wally has been bad! Wally has told Master Rogers a secret! Wally must punish—,”

“Wally will _not_ punish.” Steve says firmly, catching Wally’s head gently in his hands. “Forget I asked, alright? I’m sorry. I’ll get out of your hair.” Steve’s eyes flick to the bald patch atop Wally’s head. “Or, well, you know. It’s a figure of speech.”

Wally nods and sniffles deeply. He stands and escorts Steve to the door, shutting it heavily behind him as he turns to leave.

Fury’s got a lot of secrets, like the third floor corridor that he’s strictly forbidden student access to, for example. Fury’s got more secrets than he does students but Steve can’t recall a time when House Elves were ever in on the secrets with him. He gets so lost trying to make sense of the sudden trust between Fury and the Elves that he doesn’t notice the girl dancing towards him any more than she notices him. They collide painfully and Steve drops Thor’s Poptarts to rub the spot where her elbow had collided with his forehead.

“Oh, shit, dude! I’m so—Steve?” Steve cracks an eye open to see Darcy Lewis hastily pulling her headphones from her ears. “Sorry, buddy, but this song is my _JAM_. You ever heard of Michael Jackson?” She asks, bopping on the spot. Her music is loud enough that Steve can hear it over the din of the corridors.

_I want to love you! (P.Y.T.) Pretty young thing! You need some lovin’! (T.L.C.)Tender lovin’ care!_

Steve laughs and nods. Darcy may be pure by blood, but she’s Muggle by heart. Steve’s pretty sure the rumor about her keeping her Arithmancy notes in a Harry Styles folder are true. Between Parker and Quill, she’s got more than enough music on her iPod (“A box full of music, how clever are these freakin’ Muggles, dude?”) to keep her bopping happily down every corridor on her way to class. She’s stepped up as head of the Muggle Born Pure Blood Relations Club after Steve stepped down to focus on captaining the Quidditch team, and since then hasn’t been able to spend as much time doing what she does best: meddling in her best friend Jane’s life until she asks out Tall, Blond, and Dreamy. (Her words, not Steve’s, though if only given three words to describe Thor, he’d probably choose the same ones.)

Speaking of which, she bends down to pick up the fallen Poptarts. “Oh, hey, are these for Thor?”

“Yeah,” Steve says as he takes them back, “they come special delivery from the House Elves.”

Darcy rolls her eyes. “Parker brought some to the last MBPBRC meeting and Thor cleaned house in, like, two minutes flat. All eight of them. Gone. Where does he put them, man?”

“I’ll be sure to ask!” Steve says as he makes to leave.

“Hey, when you see him, tell him Jane’s looking for him!” Darcy calls as she slides her headphones back over her ears.

“Is she really?”

“NO!” Darcy yells, though Steve doesn’t think she realizes she’s doing it. “BUT HE DOESN’T HAVE TO KNOW THAT!”

Steve nods and carries on his way. By some miracle he manages to make it to Gryffindor tower without getting sidetracked again. He greets The Fat Lady kindly and provides the password when asked. The portrait swings open and Steve fits himself through the hole in the wall, something that’s become a lot more difficult since the first time he’d done it all those years ago. He passes through the common room without a fuss, heading for the boy’s stairwell and climbing it to the top. He follows the short hall to the heavy wooden door marked by a golden ‘7’ and pushes it open.

“ROGERS!”

Steve looks up to find Clint hanging from the wooden beams above in a make-shift hammock that looks suspiciously like the curtains from common room. Knowing Clint, that’s probably exactly what it is.

“A hammock Clint, really?”

“It’s not a hammock, Rogers, it’s a _hanging oasis_.”

“Don’t you have a bed?” Steve asks, just this side of exasperated.

“Yup,” Clint says, popping the ‘p’. “But now, I’ve got two.”

He doesn’t know why he’s surprised that Clint’s found a way to monopolize sleeping space. It’s common knowledge amongst seventh year Gryffindors that he’s not to be disturbed until well after noon on any given day. It’s rare to catch Clint without a piping hot cup of coffee in his hand, and it’s even rarer to catch him coming to class on time because of it. Coffee first, everything else second, that’s the Barton motto. Despite his less than pristine attendance record and questionable sleeping patterns, Clint’s actually one of the brightest wizards at Hogwarts. He’s a walking paradox like that, brilliant yet lazy, arrogant yet humble, smart yet clueless. Clint’s always quick with a joke but slow with an answer, but when he finally gets around to giving one, it’s usually right.

“Where’s everybody else?” Steve asks. Thor’s school robe is hanging from the post of his bed, so Steve knows he’s been here, and he’d seen Sam in the hall. He hasn’t seen nor heard from Rhodey yet, but that’s not abnormal. He’s arrived last for six years in a row, much to his chagrin.

“Uhhhhh…” Clint drawls, proving Steve’s point about the whole ‘slow with an answer’ thing. “I think they…uhhhhh…”

“Coming through!”

Steve turns and ducks out of the way just in time as Sam flies into the room, landing on his bed in a heap. The Falcon 0-100 falls harmlessly to the ground without Sam to pilot it.

“Did you get it?” Clint asks, craning his neck over the edge of his hammock.

Sam thrusts the Slytherin banner victoriously in the air, earning whoops of approval from Steve and Clint. He sits up slowly and catches his breath. “I’ll tell you, boys,” he says between gasps, “Stark can fly.”

“He can’t, the Mark 42 can.” Clint corrects, referring to Stark’s flashy new broomstick of his own design.

“Yeah, well, it couldn’t fly fast enough.” Steve says, taking the banner from Sam and hanging it off the beam not currently occupied by Clint’s _hanging oasis_. “Score one for Gryffindor!”

Thor ambles into the room and lights up immediately. “This is the first victory of many, my brothers!” He boasts. “The serpent is no match for the mighty lion!”

“What he said.” Clint says.

Thor comes from the Odinson line, a family known for their strength in battle. It’s for that reason that the elder Odinson boy is competitive and easily instigated, but he’s also one of the most humble students at Hogwarts despite the weight of his family name. He has a brother the year beneath him. The pair seems at first glance to be polar opposites—Thor, the handsome athlete, Loki, pale and snide, but Thor assures everyone he meets that he and his brother are the closest of friends, a sentiment which his brother seems reluctant to share.

He also has an apparent penchant for Poptarts, evident in the way he nearly tackles Steve when he sees the box in his hands.

“My Elven friends have fulfilled my request!” He says, tearing into the box on the way to his bed. “They are wondrous creatures, are they not?”

“Yeah, know who else is a wondrous creature?” Steve asks as he flops down on his own bed. “Jane Foster. And she’s looking for you.”

Thor’s face turns a brilliant shade of red. “Is she?”

“Come on!” Sam teases. “Aren’t we supposed to be brave or something? What’s the hold up on that? You’ve been dumb over her since First Year, man!”

Thor turns impossibly redder as he crawls into his bed and sits cross legged atop the scarlet and gold sheets. “The Lady Jane is one who’s beauty and intellect both awe and intimidate me. I could never hope to woo her.”

“Have you looked at yourself, buddy?” Clint asks from above. “It’s like staring into the sun. You’re like a Golden Retriever but in human form.”

“Speaking of, how’s Lucky doin’?” Sam asks.

“So glad you asked.” Clint says, climbing out of his hammock and dropping to the floor with an eerily silent thud. He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and flips it open. The accordion photo strip falls out, revealing at least 30 pictures of Clint and his beloved dog. “This is us when we went backpacking in France. And this is us when we went swimming in the Black Sea. And this is us when we skydived over Brazil. And this is…”

“Anyone ever tell you how weird it is that you keep that many pictures of your dog in your wallet?” Sam asks.

Clint snaps his wallet shut with a glare. “Rogers has a poster of Bucky Barnes hanging over his bed but does anybody say anything about that? _No!_ ” He storms over to his bunk, grumbling to himself all the way. “Cute ass dog…Don’t understand…Freakin’ best dog ever…”

Steve’s eyes flick up to the incriminating photo of Bucky Barnes that does indeed hang above his bed. Barnes’s jersey is seared and smoking, revealing wide expanses of tanned skin and chiseled muscles. In the background a Romanian Longhorn spits fire and roars menacingly, but Steve didn’t buy the poster for the dragon.

“That’s beside the point.” Steve says defensively.

Rhodey appears in the doorway, effectively ending the argument. “Aw, man! Last again?” He whines, loping into the room with his trunk in tow.

“Look at the bright side, we’re bunk buddies again!” Clint says happily.

Rhodey appeals to the rest of the room. “Please, guys. He hums in his sleep.”

“I do not!”

“Six years, Clint!” Rhodey says, holding up a hand to keep Clint from speaking. “Six years!”

But not even Steve is willing to endure the torture of sleeping beneath Clint. Rhodey sighs and accepts defeat, dragging his trunk to rest beside Clint’s at the foot of the bed. He spots the Slytherin banner hanging proudly from the ceiling. “Does Tony know you’ve got that?” He asks Sam.

“Yup.”

Rhodey runs his hand over his face. “You know he’s gonna be up my ass to get that back, don’t you?”

“Yup.”

Rhodey heaves a long suffering sigh and falls face first into his bed. Tony and Rhodey are excellent friends despite being in “rival” houses. Rhodey doesn’t really feed into that crap. He knows Tony. The guy is cunning and resourceful and easily the most ambitious kid Rhodey’s ever met, sure, but he’s got about as much evil in him as Rogers does, which is to say: not much.

“Anyone know when dinner’s on?” Sam asks.

“Six o’clock, same as every year.” Clint says.

“A man can dream.” Sam pouts. “I’m starving. Hope the Elves are cooking up something good.”

“They’re up to something.” Steve says, recalling his conversation with Wally. “Fury’s orders. Wally said something big is happening tonight. Something really important.”

“No shit? You know, I noticed The Great Hall lookin’ a little different today. I think they actually shined the armor. When’s the last time they did that?” Sam asks.

“Who knows? I, for one, hope that whatever this “important” thing is, it includes bacon.” Clint says, earning a hum of approval from Thor.

***

The Great Hall fills up fast. Sam drags them all down early so he can watch as everyone files in and notices his handy work. While the Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw banners hang proudly above their respective tables, Slytherin’s banner is noticeably absent from the bunch. Word flies around the room that Sam threw it in the Great Lake. Tony Stark climbs atop the Slytherin table to make 100% certain that Sam sees him when he flips him off. Unfortunately, Sam’s not the only one who catches the gesture.

“That’ll be 10 points from Slytherin, Mr. Stark.”

The Great Hall falls silent immediately. A thousand heads turn to the High Table where the staff has begun to file in. At the center, standing in front of his ornate dining chair, is Headmaster Fury looking _thoroughly_ unimpressed.

“As for you, Mr. Wilson.” Fury says, turning his one good eye on Sam. “100 points will be deducted from Gryffindor if that banner is not returned here in the next two minutes.”

“But that’s a five minute run!” Sam cries in indignation.

“Better get a move on then.” Fury replies coolly.

Sam whines miserably and rises from the table. 

“You call that running?” Steve teases as Sam sprints down the expanse of the Great Hall and disappears through the double doors.

Fury waits patiently for Sam’s footfalls to fade before beginning his Welcoming Address. “Welcoming” being a relative term where Fury is concerned. Steve’s always seen this as Fury’s way to remind everyone just how intimidating he is, lest they forgot over the summer break.

“I would like to begin by welcoming back Professor Selvig to our esteemed panel of professors.” The students applaud politely when Selvig stands and bows, but the applause can’t drown out the speculative whispers. After a brief stint in St. Mungos, Professor Selvig returned to Hogwarts with more than a few idiosyncrasies in tow. On one memorable occasion, students walked in to find him in the buff ranting about how Stonehenge was the work of intergalactic wizards attempting to convey a message. Some days are better than others for the professor, but if one pays close enough attention to his tangents, there’s usually a glimmer of wisdom in his words. Unless he’s talking about Norse mythology, in which case all bets are off.

“Next, I would like to remind you that _all_ students are denied entry to the Forbidden Forest after sundown.” Fury says firmly. His eye roams over the Ravenclaw table. “I’m speaking, of course, to _you_ , Mr. Parker.” He adds when his eye finally lands on the Sixth Year.

“Acromantulas are _seriously_ misunderstood creatures!”

“Take it up with Professor McCoy.” Fury says, effectively ending Peter’s rant before it’s begun.

“I would also like to address the matter of the missing bathroom signs.” Fury continues. “It has been brought to my attention multiple times that there are students who are not comfortable with gender specific bathrooms. That being said, there will be no effort to replace the signs that were stolen at the end of last term. The only limitations that still stand are those which regard the Prefects bathrooms located on the sixth floor.” There’s scattered applause and sighs of relief around the room. Steve looks up and catches Fury’s eye, nodding his thanks. Fury nods almost imperceptibly in return.

“Now, as is tradition I believe it’s time that we begin the Sorting. I feel the need to remind you that placing bets on which House will get the most First Years is _forbidden_ and those who orchestrate such bets will cost their Houses 50 points.”

The words are no sooner out of Fury’s mouth than Steve feels someone punch his knee beneath the table. He looks down to see Peter Quill squatting between the legs of Steve’s fellow Gryffindors, hidden from Fury’s prying eye.

“You bettin’ this year, Rogers?” He asks.

Quill and his buddies have been running this pool since their First Year. Sure enough, when Steve’s eyes flick over to the Hufflepuff table, he’s able to see Rocket shuffling along beneath the table, collecting sickles left and right. Luckily Rocket’s pretty small for a Fourth Year. Quill doesn’t look like he’s got the same luck, judging by the hunch of his shoulders and his pained wince. It’s a wonder how Drax manages to do it at all.

Steve bets ten sickles on Gryffindor, same as every year.

The ornate wooden doors of The Great Hall swing open to reveal an orderly line of wide eyed First Years. Before the procession has a chance to begin, Sam’s voice echoes through the halls.

“WAIT!” Sam sprints through the door with the Slytherin banner clutched in one hand and The Falcon in the other.

Fury glances from Sam to the watch on his wrist. “Cutting it close, Mr. Wilson.”

“I know, I know!” Sam grumbles as he mounts his broom and takes off, rushing to replace the stolen banner. He hangs it amongst the others on the rafters, taking the time to smooth it out under Fury’s watchful stare.

“That’s quite enough, Mr. Wilson. I think there are a few First Years who’d like to be sorted before they’re Second Years.” Fury says dryly.

With Sam back on the ground and the Falcon 0-100 tucked beneath the table, the Sorting Ceremony is finally under way. There are scattered whoops from the Gryffindor table as their Head of House, Professor Erskine, leads a parade of frightened looking First Years down the long aisle between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables. It seems like only yesterday that Steve was doing the same.

In the end it’s Ravenclaw who gains the most students, beating out Gryffindor by one.

“RIGGED!” Clint shouts.

“SUCK IT, SUCKAS!” Darcy calls back.

“Mr. Barton. Miss Lewis. Would it be too much to ask for another minute of your attention?” Fury asks in a way that makes it sound less like a question and more like a threat. A murmur travels around the Great Hall. It’s unusual for Fury to make an announcement after the Sorting unless he’s asking students to “Please use your utensils this time,” before unleashing them on the feast. Fury waits for the whispers to die down before he continues. “I have an announcement to make regarding the nature of the upcoming year.”

“Think he’s finally gonna sack Darkhölme?” Sam whispers conspiratorially.

As if she can hear him from her perch at the far left side of the High Table, Professor Darkholme’s yellow eyes snap towards the Gryffindor table and the scales of her blue skin prickle ominously. Steve’s own skin crawls under her gaze.

“Hogwarts will be playing host to students from two other prestigious schools of magic for the duration of this year.” The Great Hall is uncharacteristically silent as everyone hangs off Fury’s every word. “I expect _all_ of you to be on your best behavior.” His eye darts around the room, lingering particularly long the Slytherin table before moving on.

“Some of you may be wondering why it is these students will be staying with us for such a prolonged period of time. I am pleased to announce,” Fury says, though he doesn’t sound very pleased, more like politely apathetic, “that Hogwarts will be hosting the 425th Tri-Wizard Tournament.”

“By the beard of Odin!” Thor cries over the explosion of chatter which blooms in every corner of the Hall.

“Tri-What-y What, now?” Rhodey asks.

“The Tri-Wizard Tournament.” Clint repeats breathlessly.

“It would seem as though most of you are familiar with this event,” Fury speaks over the din, “and so it should go without saying that the Tournament comes with a strict set of rules that I expect you all to abide by.” His eye darts to the Slytherins again. 

“Despite the competitive nature of the Tournament, it should go without saying that you are to make these students feel welcome. Your home is their home, so to speak.”

“Where are they gonna sleep?” Clint yells, raising a few chuckles from around the room.

Fury isn’t quite as tickled. “Accommodations have been prepared in the Slytherin and Hufflepuff dormitories.”

“I feel sorry for the poor bastards who have to room with Stark.” Sam whispers under her breath, drawing a chuckle from Steve. Steve knows all too well what it’s like to share a room with Tony. While visiting Rhodey over the summer, Steve woke up in the middle of the night with half-finished equations scribbled on his forehead all because Tony had a breakthrough on an invention and couldn’t find any parchment to put it down on. Every student in Hogwarts has borne witness to one of Stark’s tangents, where he’ll mutter madly to himself under his breath and snatch every spare bit of parchment within arm’s reach and fill them to the margins with illegible scrawl.

“Don’t bother. He usually passes out in the Room of Requirement.” Rhodey whispers across the table, “They probably won’t even see him.”

“What’s he do in there?” Steve asks.

“Hell if I know.”

“With that being said, I feel the time has come to welcome the young witches and wizards with whom you’ll be sharing the grounds this year.” Fury says. Anticipation mounts and every head swivels towards the double doors at the end of the Hall. “I introduce to you all, the lovely ladies of the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic.”

The doors swing open on a gentle breeze that smells like orchids and fresh rain. Blue birds soar into the room, tweeting a melodic song in harmony with one another as they circle overhead. Students around the Hall crane their necks to get a better view as twenty young women file in, dressed in powder blue uniforms that flutter prettily as they walk. Every head turns to follow their stride. It’s mesmerizing, the way they all move in perfect synchronization. Their hair even swishes in time with one another. It’s like, well, it’s like magic, Steve thinks stupidly.

The girls are halfway down the aisle when three new figures appear in the doorway. In the center is a serious looking brunette dressed in a stiff black suit. On either side of her she’s got a blonde and a brunette, both wearing uniforms identical to those of the girls ahead. Steve recognizes them immediately.

“Those are the Carters!” He blurts.

Steve knows from the countless articles he’s read about their family. The legendary Carter line is known for its strong women, most of whom have gained notoriety in The Ministry both as Aurors and as counsel to the Minister himself, practically unheard of for the women of their time. 

Peggy Carter, the formidable brunette, exemplifies the dignity and grace of her ancestors before her. The only thing more iconic than her red lip is her right hook, something that’s been captured on the front page of The Prophet more times than Steve can count. More often than not it’s being delivered to whichever poor sad sack thinks they can put their paws on Carter while she attends a function as representative of her famous family.

Sharon is Peggy Carter’s little sister, though if that’s how you refer to her you’re gonna get a left hook that rivals her sister’s. It’s this exasperating comparison that’s turned Sharon into a bit of a rebel. She attends functions only to nick as much Firewhiskey as she can before her sister catches her at it. She’s even got a tattoo of a siren on her back that neither her sister nor their parents knew about until it made the front page of Witches Weekly.

The three women walk in unison down the aisle. The charming birds from earlier stop their singing. The only sound throughout the Hall is the echo of heels clicking rhythmically against the stone floors. It’s already an intimidating display long before Peggy and Sharon raise their wands towards the enchanted ceiling. What was once a starry sky becomes charged with electricity at the command of the sisters’ magic. Lightning illuminates the Hall and thunder shakes the tables.

“Glorious!” Thor shouts, gawking at the sky above.

The sisters share a smug smile before schooling their features into haughty indifference.

The girls who had gone before them have since lined up in front of the High Table, nine on each side with a space in the middle for the three women coming to join them. Peggy, Sharon, and the severe looking woman between them fall into place. Just when Steve thinks it’s over, all twenty witches raise their wands in tandem and point them skyward, creating a lightning storm the likes of which he’s never seen before.

The ladies of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic lower their wands and the storm stops. They hold their arms stiffly at their sides and bow to the Hall, smiling politely at the roaring applause that rains down on them.

“You said those are the Carters?” Sam shouts over the noise. “Think we’ll get to see ‘em throw a punch?”

“God, I hope so!” Steve shouts back.

Fury comes to stand beside the woman in the black suit. “It is my great honor to introduce you to my colleague and dear friend, Headmistress of Beauxbatons Academy, Maria Hill.” The Hogwarts students politely applaud her while her own students bow their respect. Headmistress Hill offers the crowd a tight lipped smile and a nod.

“Does Fury actually have a friend?” Clint whispers down the table.

“I’ll be damned.” Steve says in awe. “I owe Stark 20 galleons.”

The Hufflepuffs make room for the witches of Beauxbatons at their table. Pepper greats every girl with a smile, welcoming them with open arms. Steve watches as Peggy Carter takes a seat between her sister and a wide eyed Phil Coulson. It looks like his hero worship extends beyond Steve, after all.

“Think they’re gonna try and steal Pepper away? Recruit her to teach at their school or something?” Rhodey asks, watching Pepper greet Headmistress Hill with a firm handshake.

“Tony won’t let that happen.” Steve says. “Even if it did, he’d put on a wig and follow her there.”

“Now that I’d pay to see.” Clint says with a chuckle.

Fury waits for the students to settle again before speaking. “As you well know, there is a third school joining us in competition and study this year. I invite you now to give a warm welcome to the talented students of the Durmstrang Institute.”

“Durmstrang?” Steve chokes.

The double doors fly open and rattle on their hinges and a single firework soars through the doorway. It’s about as inconspicuous as any firework from Zonko’s Joke Shop, whizzing around the Great Hall with brilliant flashes of orange light.

“Is that it?” Clint chuckles. “I gotta say, I was expecting something a bit more—,”

No one will ever know what Clint was expecting from Durmstrang’s grand entrance. The deafening crack of the exploding firework effectively drowns out the end of his sentence. Steve has to shield his eyes against the blinding light, brighter than Beauxbatons’s lightening by a mile.

The sparks come together into the shape of a Romanian Longhorn. Its eyes burn brightly as it opens its mouth and emits a rumbling roar before shooting flames down the length of the Great Hall. The flames take shape of a dozen other mythical creatures before fading into a dark, curling smoke that floats around the Great Hall like an eerie fog. 

From the smoke emerge the witches and wizards of the Durmstrang Institute lead by none other than Bucky Barnes.


	2. The Students of Durmstrang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY. _**WOAH.**_
> 
> What can I even _say_ right now? For real. The responses to this fic have been INCREDIBLE and I can't even begin to put into words how much your kind works and kudos have meant to me. You're all SO sweet, SO SWEET. You make writing this fic SO much fun for me, you have no idea. I am going to tell you guys again and again and again how wonderful you are because you have made me feel so wonderful about this. Seriously. Wow.
> 
> I love hearing from you guys, so if you have thoughts or critiques or critisisms, lemme have 'em! I try to get back to everyone ASAP, because I feel like I need to thank everyone and let them know that I appreciate their thoughts! ALSO!!! Any ideas or headcannons or whatever that you'd like to see in this fic--feel free to share! I'd love to be able to work in little things like that where I can to make this fun for everyone. I'd be sure to credit you in my notes, obviously, if you'd be kind enough to trust me with your headcannons.
> 
> AND NOW, ONWARD, TO CHAPTER 2! (AKA - Bucky Barnes and the Mysterious Case of Love at First Sight [Featuring Meddling Friends and an Adorably Flustered Steve])

Bucky Barnes made headlines long before he ever set foot on a Quidditch field.

The murder of Bucky’s parents at the hands of the notorious dark wizard Red Skull was front page news for weeks after the fact. Their murderer escaped that night, taking with him not only the lives of George and Winifred Barnes, but the better half of Bucky’s left arm, too. He can still remember, clear as day, the way his left hand shook as he held his wand up high, ready to defend his six year old sister in the next room with his own life. He knew the curse. He knew the repercussions of using it. It was Unforgivable. His lips had only just begun to form the words when the Red Skull turned his wand on him.

The Healers at Saint Mungo’s gave Bucky a prosthetic that was damn near impossible to discern from a regular arm save for the fact that it’s made of steel. It’s even charmed to grow as he does. It’s a nifty piece of magic; one that Howard Stark had a hand in designing not long before his untimely passing. He was reluctant to use it at first, favoring his right arm and letting the left hang limp and useless at his side until the day that a Healer with the kindest blue eyes Bucky had ever known sat on the edge of his bed and brought out a paint set from behind her back.

_“What’s your favorite color, Bucky?”_

_“Red.”_

_“Red it is, then.”_

She’d dipped a brush in the red paint and brought it to Bucky’s arm, keeping a steady hand as she outlined a five-point star on Bucky’s shoulder. It was something so small, yet it made the arm seem more a part of Bucky than it had been before. Knowing that his arm was unique made him more apt to use it. Pretty soon he was playing catch with Rebecca in the halls, much to the annoyance of the Saint Mungo’s staff.

Following his discharge from Saint Mungo’s, Bucky and his sister had no choice but to live with their uncle in Romania. Both he and his wife worked training dragons and sometimes, if Rebecca and Bucky behaved that week, they’d bring them along to meet the creatures they worked with. Bucky’s favorite the abnormally small Hungarian Horntail with all the tenacity that his species was known for despite his underwhelming stature. Bucky liked the little guy. He always snuck him an extra steak when his uncle wasn’t looking.

In his first year at Durmstrang Bucky excelled in all his classes, though most of the attention he drew came from the curiosity of his left arm. Rebecca joined him four years later. She followed him by the coat tails day in and day out, but he never complained. She was one of the few who saw him as more than The Kid with the Metal Arm until Bucky hopped aboard a broomstick and someone handed him a quaffle for the first time.

From there it was a roller coaster ride to reluctant stardom.

Bucky suited up for the Romanian Longhorns for the first time during the summer between his Fifth and Sixth year. He made waves his rookie year by scoring more points than the top three scorers in the International Quidditch Association combined. After that, people starting staring at the arm with reverence rather than pity. It became a source of great debate amongst the International Confederation of Wizards' Quidditch Committee whether or not Barnes’s cybernetic enhancement gave him an unfair advantage over other players.

“What next? You gonna ask if having dead parents makes me fly any faster?” He’d snapped during a meeting with the Committee. The quote was on t-shirts the next morning. Fame is a funny thing.

And with the fame comes the fans. To this day, Rebecca remains his biggest supporter, fighting her way to the front row of every match, screaming herself horse amongst the thousands of other fans who pay a pretty penny to watch him play. They say he’s like a ghost, the way he flies. He’ll disappear from sight long enough to catch the other team by surprise when he reappears behind a vacant goal with the quaffle clutched in his left hand. Bucky doesn’t feed into the hype. He shows up, he plays, he goes home.

To say his personal life has suffered would be an understatement.

Before Quidditch, Bucky was able to pass through the halls of Durmstrang as anonymously as anyone with a metal arm and dead parents could hope to. But now, Bucky’s got _professors_ asking him to sign stuff for their nieces-nephews-sons-daughters-whoevers. He can’t take a piss without turning around to find some starry-eyed fan breathing down his neck.

It had been fun at first. Real fun. He and Rebecca stayed up reading and responding to fan mail. Bucky dated his way through half the Durmstrang student body. He had dinner with The Minister and even got to snap a selfie with him before he left. But when the novelty of fame wore off, Bucky realized that it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Sure, he’s still got Rebecca, now in her Third Year at Durmstrang, and he’s got his teammates, but friends are hard to come by when you’re paranoid about whose genuine and who’s just using you for the fame or the money. And don’t even get him started on dating.

Bucky made sure to send his publicist the biggest box of Chocolate Frogs money could buy following the PR nightmare that was his extremely public coming out. He never meant to become a rallying point for gay rights or anything, he was just a kid tired of being told who he was gonna date, but when the fan mail started pouring in about how his coming out inspired some of his fans to do the same, Bucky realized that maybe his fame didn’t have to be the curse he’d made it out to be. And thus began Bucky’s slippery slope towards full blown political activism.

Bucky’s life outside of the spotlight is hardly worthy of a footnote, never mind a headline, but no one wants to read about Bucky Barnes being found face-down and fast asleep between the shelves of Durmstrang’s impressive library. Between his studies and the Quidditch Finals looming around the corner, the last thing Bucky needs is something like the Tri-Wizard Tournament, a glorified pissing contest between the three largest wizarding institutions in Europe that draws press like flies to honey. He knows Peirce is expecting him to enter the games this year, but all Bucky really wants is to pass his N.E.W.T.S. and maybe twist The Minister’s arm into passing the bill about guaranteed pay for House Elves.

That is until he spots Merlin’s gift to man sitting at the Gryffindor table.

***

“Did you know that Hogwarts has the largest student body of any wizarding institution in Europe?”

The ship lurches ominously as it encounters a changing tide. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and tries his best not to hurl. Put him on a broom a thousand feet in the air, sure, no problem, but put him below deck on Durmstrangs’ favorite form of cross-sea transportation and you might as well hand him a complimentary brown bag while you’re at it. He can’t even bring himself to look at Natasha right now.

“There’s over 1,200 students in this year’s returning class.” She continues conversationally, undeterred by Bucky’s silence.

“No, I didn’t know that.” Bucky responds dryly.

“Did you know that I intend to set you up with every single one of them?” She asks.

Bucky smiles despite himself. “That I did know.”

Natasha Romanov. Natalie Rushman. Natalia Romanova. Any way you spin it, she’s the best friend Bucky has at Durmstrang. They’ve known each other since they were First Years, long before Bucky Barnes was _Bucky Barnes!_.

Natasha’s family sent her to Durmstrang Institute in the hopes that she’d share their affinity for the Dark Arts, but it became apparent to her the moment she sat down in Defense Against the Dark Arts that her calling came in fighting dark magic rather than practicing it. She plays her role well, though, knowing full well the consequences that befall traitors of the Romanov name. It’s hard to tell where the act ends and the person begins but Natasha seems content to live in the grey area in between. 

Her friendship with Bucky began with reasoning as simple as him being the only boy in their year who didn’t underestimate Natasha’s ability to curse him six ways to Sunday, and so he was the only First Year in all of Durmstrang that was able to walk without a limp that year. Since then their friendship has evolved into some sort of sibling bond. She’s like a sister to him, a sister who’s made it her life’s mission to find him a happy, loving relationship. She recently dried up her options at Durmstrang, which is part of the reason why she lit up like a flame when Headmaster Peirce informed them that they’d be spending the year at Hogwarts to compete in the Tri-Wizard Tournament.

“You’ve got to admit, I was close with Lillian.”

“Lillian…Lillian…”

“Lip piercing.” Natasha provides helpfully.

Bucky snorts. “No, no.”

“No?”

“Absolutely not.”

Natasha _tsks_ softly. “Thought I had you with that one.”

“You were closer with Matt.”

“Matt?”

“Matt.” Bucky repeats with a low hum. “Almost had me with Matt.”

Natasha smirks. “He was the Keeper, wasn’t he?”

Bucky leans back against the wall behind them and smiles. “Keepers are keepers,” he says in sing-song.

“Noted.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. Maybe if he ignores her, she’ll go away. It hasn’t worked for the past seven years, but he’s willing to give it another shot.

“What about Professor Lehnsherr?”

Bucky gags. “Professors, Natasha? Really?”

“You’ve left me no choice.” She says gravely. She always did have a flare for the dramatics.

Bucky’s about to shoot down Natasha’s latest (and possibly her most desperate) suggestion when Headmaster Peirce’s disembodied voice interrupts.

“Is this—is it working? Is this working? Yes? Okay, let’s get this underway. Students!” Their Headmaster announces in the voice he employs only when addressing Durmstrang students or politicians, “We will be breaking surface at any moment and I ask you to be prepared.”

“ _This means not a hair is to be out of place,_ ” Bucky mocks in his Headmaster’s haughty tone.

“ _—nor is a button to be left askew._ ” Natasha finishes.

“ _After all, it is our appearance which makes an impression long before our actions._ ” They mock in unison.

“I expect to see all of you on the top deck for some final thoughts before our arrival.” Pierce concludes.

Bucky snickers and moves to stand. “You know, you’d think for a guy so concerned about appearances, he’d have given up on that comb over.”

Natasha throws her arm across his chest, forcing him back into his seat. “Wait.” She says sharply. The ship lurches violently and Bucky can hear the bodies of students in the cabin next door hit the floor painfully. The ship rights itself a moment later.

“Good call.” Bucky says. “Think we’re above water?”

Natasha stands and crosses the room, pulling their thick red coats from their hangers. “Only one way to find out.”

They dress in uniform quickly, minding their hair and buttons as they pull their woolen coats over their shoulders. They exit the cabin and join the flow of students moving along the passageway. Pierce didn’t choose a particularly large group to accompany him to Hogwarts, making it easy to spot the head of bouncing brown curls up ahead. Bucky sneaks up and twists his finger around a strand, pulling it straight before allowing the curl to spring free.

Rebecca rounds on him with a fire in her eyes that makes his chest ache with how much it reminds him of their mother. “You better knock it off unless you wanna lose the other arm, you big jerk!”

“Aw, come on! That’s no way to talk you your big brother!” Bucky teases, nudging her with his elbow until she smiles.

She does, big and toothily, just like their father. Bucky reaches over and adjusts her trapper hat, a furry black monstrosity that hides half her face. She slaps his hand away and he laughs at the look of fond exasperation on what little he can see of her face.

Rebecca Barnes might as well be the poster child for little sisters everywhere. When she’s not hanging off of every word her older brother says she’s reprimanding him for slouching, or cussing, or whatever it is that Bucky’s doing that isn’t to her liking. Her favorite pastime? Helping Natasha find her brother a special someone to date. Speaking of which…

“Hey, did you know that Hogwarts has the largest student body of any wizarding institution in Europe?” She asks as they climb the stairs towards the top deck.

Bucky throws his head back with a groan. “Oh no, Beck, not you, too!” He whines.

Natasha throws her arm over Rebecca with a proud smile. “We only want what’s best for you.” She says.

“What’s best for me?” Bucky laughs. “Was that what you were thinking when you set me up with Brock?”

Natasha winces. “A minor oversight.”

“He tried to kill me!”

“Alright, a major oversight.” Rebecca admits.

They step onto the top deck and fall into formation, one long row of twenty students standing side-by-side with their arms behind their backs. Bucky scoffs at the two of them and their twin expressions of determination. “Has it ever crossed your minds that I don’t _want_ to date anybody?”

“Sure, it’s crossed my mind.” Natasha says. “And then I laugh and remind myself that you, James Barnes, are a hopeless romantic masquerading as a disillusioned pessimist doomed to spend your life pining after someone that does not exist.”

“Seriously,” Rebecca agrees, “where are we supposed to find someone just as pig headed and opinionated at you are? Not everyone is willing to go to Nurmengard over equality for House Elves.”

“Well they ought to,” Bucky snaps.

Rebecca rolls her eyes, “I know, Bucky. Don’t forget who sat with you in that cell all night.”

“All’s we’re trying to say is that maybe you need to set some more realistic standards.” Natasha says gently. Bucky gives her a pointed glare. She sighs in defeat. “Fine, 1,200 students is a lot to work with. Maybe we’ll find you another bleeding heart philanthropist.”

Rebecca snorts. “Yeah, and maybe Pierce will give up the comb over.”

The man himself emerges from the Headmaster’s quarters and comes to a stop in front of them. Bucky swallows his laughter and averts his eyes, trying to look at anything but the mink fur cloak and white suit that he’s chosen for the occasion. It’s clear that Headmaster Peirce is aiming to make a statement, though Bucky’s not quite sure what he’s trying to say.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Peirce says with a big, political smile, “I know that I need not remind you what an honor it is to be here.”

“And yet he reminds us anyway.” Rebecca grumbles.

“You are the finest collection of young men and women that Durmstrang has to offer,” Peirce continues. His eyes linger on Bucky for a moment before moving on down the line. “You were hand selected by myself based on strength of character, intellect, and how I feel you will represent Durmstrang in this competition.”

“Still don’t get why I’m here, I can’t even compete.” Rebecca whispers.

“Because Peirce knows Bucky’d never leave you behind.” Natasha answers. Bucky doesn’t dispute it.

“I ask only a few things in return for awarding you this incredible opportunity.” Peirce says. “I ask that you bring honor to the Durmstrang name, that you conduct yourselves with respect and dignity, and,” Peirce chuckles, “that you win the Tournament, of course.” His eyes fall on Bucky again.

Bucky drops his gaze. He has no intention of volunteering for the Tournament, “opportunity” be damned. He’s read the history books. The Tri-Wizard Tournament’s got a death toll and he’s not looking to add to it any time soon.

Peirce looks up to a place above their heads. “Ladies and gentlemen of Durmstrang, it is with great pleasure that I give you Hogwarts, your home for this year.” He says.

Twenty heads swivel around and twenty jaws drop in unison. Hogwarts emerges from the thin fog in the air, windows burning brightly in the lateness of the hour. Pictures hardly do justice to the immaculacy of the castle. Bucky figures you could probably fit about fifteen Durmstrangs in there and maybe a little extra. It sprawls across rolling fields of green and towers so high overhead it seems as though it may touch the stars.

“Think they’re compensating for something?” Bucky asks.

“Come on, I want a better look!” Rebecca cries, taking Bucky by the wrist and leading the rush towards the portside. She, Bucky, and Natasha lean over the gunwale and watch as the castle’s reflection in the glassy waters ahead is disturbed by the unseen dock rising up from beneath the surface. 

“Sweet Merlin,” Rebecca gasps.

A shadowy figure moves along the dock, draped in a billowing black cloak. The figure comes to meet them as the ship pulls up, waiting patiently as the ramp descends and rests against the aged, wet wood of the platform. 

It’s hard to make out all his features in the moonlight, but the man at the end of the dock paints an intimidating picture regardless. He watches with cold ambivalence as students pass, expression stony and body stiff. Bucky meets his eye for only a second before dropping his gaze.

“Nick!” Headmaster Pierce cries as he bounds down the ramp.

“Headmaster Pierce.” The man says stiffly. “Always a pleasure.”

“He makes it sound like losing his eye was more pleasurable.” Natasha whispers. Bucky snorts into his hand.

“How long has it been?” Headmaster Pierce asks, throwing his arm around the other man’s shoulders in a show of camaraderie. “Ten years? Twenty?”

The man steps out from beneath Pierce’s arm. “I’ve lost track of time.” He says coolly.

“Students of Durmstrang!” Pierce says, placing his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I would like to introduce you to my colleague and longtime friend, Headmaster Nicholas Fury.”

There’s an awkward smattering of light applause. Fury doesn’t look affronted by the lack of enthusiasm. In fact, he seems more offended by the hand lingering on his shoulder, which he’s glaring at out of the corner of his eye. Bucky makes himself laugh about how fitting the man’s name is of his character.

“Thank you, Headmaster Pierce.” Fury says stiffly, shrugging off the offending hand.

Headmaster Pierce doesn’t seem to notice Fury’s chilly demeanor. “Have our sisters from Beauxbatons arrived? I feel as though I haven’t seen Maria in ages.” He laments dramatically.

“They have,” Fury says shortly.

“Then what are we waiting for?” Pierce cries.

Fury casts a look around the Durmstrang students clumped together. “I assume you have trunks?” He asks.

Pierce barks out a laugh that sounds more sincere than the ones he usually fakes. He must be practicing. “Surely your Elves can see to the luggage?”

Bucky stiffens. “Don’t.” Rebecca hisses. “Not now, Bucky, please.”

Fury’s eye narrows. “Due to recent advances in the ethical treatment of House Elves, students have begun carrying their own trunks.”

Pierce’s grin falls from his face. “But—but it’s their _job_.”

“Their _job_ is to cook and clean when necessary. That is what they are paid to do.” Fury corrects sharply. “My students are capable of carrying their own trunks. I dare say yours are as well, Alexander.”

“You _pay_ them?” Pierce repeats in disgust.

“You pay them?” Bucky asks.

Fury’s eye finds Bucky in the crowd. “Mr. Barnes, is it?” He asks, to which Bucky nods. “It seems your message about Elfish welfare is spreading.” He says.

Bucky beams. “Glad to hear it.”

“Well then,” Pierce splutters, obviously flustered at this new development, “I suppose we can—we’ll just—yes, I’m sure it will be no problem at all to—.”

“Great.” Fury says curtly, interrupting the rambling. “You’ll meet with the students from Beauxbatons within the hour, then?” Headmaster Pierce nods stiffly and Headmaster Fury turns away. The Durmstrang students form a path for him to pass through. He’s nearly half way down the dock when he calls over his shoulder, “I hoped you packed lighter than last time!” Bucky can’t be sure, but he could almost swear to it that he hears a bark of derisive laughter after that.

***

“Tell me again how _we_ got roped into doing this?” Bucky grumbles, shifting the weight of Headmaster Pierce’s sixteenth trunk onto his left arm.

“Because _you_ can’t read hand signals.” Natasha growls from the other side of the trunk.

“Because your hand signals _suck_!” Bucky cries, nearly dropping the trunk in his indignation.

“This is the last one, right?” Natasha asks, carefully stepping down the stairs leading to the dungeons.

“If it’s not, I’m throwing the rest overboard.”

“Beautiful, beautiful!” Bucky and Natasha share a meaningful glare as Pierce himself walks over to them. “It’s this kind of strength and perseverance I hope to see shine through in the Tournament!” He says.

“Well, here’s hoping there’s a trunk-carrying task.” Natasha mutters under her breath. They drop the final trunk alongside the others stacked in front of the stone wall leading to the Slytherin common room. They’ll move their trunks into their dorms after the Welcoming Feast, but for now Bucky and Natasha both heave sighs of relief.

Rebecca wades through the tide of students and appears at his side. “Did you know The Carters are here?”

“The _Carters_?” Bucky repeats.

“Right?” Rebecca says excitedly. “Do you think Sharon’ll remember me?”

Bucky laughs. “We all spent a night in Nuremgard together, how can she not?”

Natasha’s eyes narrow. “Just how many nights have you spent in Nuremgard?” She asks.

Bucky dodges the question.

Sure enough, when Durmstrang and Beauxbatons converge in the Entrance Hall, Bucky spots The Carter sisters side by side, speaking with who Bucky can only assume is their Headmistress, given her age. He wades his way over to them, catching Peggy’s eye.

“Oh, you old git!” She cries, running to meet him and pulling him into a tight hug. “Thought I’d seen the last of you.”

Bucky laughs. “Nuremgard ain’t as fun without you, Peg. We ought to do it again some time.”

Peggy scoffs and steps away, reaching up to take his face in her hands. “You’re too pretty for prison, darling.”

“Mind telling that to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement?”

Peggy smiles and presses a wet red kiss to Bucky’s cheek. Bucky pretends to make a fuss about wiping it off, but Peggy Carter’s mark is one he doesn’t mind wearing. He, Peggy, Sharon, and Rebecca shared a cramped cell in Nuremgard after a protest gone awry. It had been Peggy who’d taped up Bucky’s gushing nose after taking a punch intended for Sharon. They’d posted bail in the morning and gone their separate ways after that but continued to speak highly of one another in the press.

Bucky looked over to see Sharon and Rebecca talking on the outskirts of the crowd. Rebecca’s talking and she’s talking _fast_ and it looks like Sharon is playing along, obviously aware of Rebecca’s undying adoration. Bucky gets it. He can’t imagine growing up in a shadow as big as the one he and Peggy have cast over their siblings.

“Will I be seeing you in the Tournament?” Peggy asks, bringing Bucky’s attention back around.

“Not if I’ve got a choice.” He says, glancing at Pierce who’s swooped in on Beauxbatons’ Headmistress, much to her visible dismay.

Peggy smirks. “He’ll put your name in for you, you know.” She says smartly. “You’re his pride and joy.”

Bucky winces. He’s well aware of Pierce’s obvious favoritism. “Yeah, well, he’ll have to learn how to spell it first.”

“Ladies of Beauxbatons,” a commanding voice announces, echoing through the hall, “If you’d line up as we’d discussed, we’ll be making our way to the Great Hall.”

“That’ll be Hill.” Peggy says mournfully. She grips Bucky’s arm firmly as she turns to leave. “Be sure to find me sometime, alright? We’ll catch up.”

Bucky nods. “I’ll follow the sound of a right hook landing on some poor sap’s skull.”

Peggy smiles, dazzling and dangerous. “That’s where you’ll find me.”

Bucky watches her go. Rebecca makes her way back over to him with stars in her eyes, watching Sharon join her sister on either side of Headmistress Hill as the students of Beauxbatons sashay their way towards the Great Hall with eerie synchronization and grace.

“Pierce told Hill that you’re his top prospect for the Tournament.” Natasha says, appearing on Bucky’s left. “He’ll throw you in himself if he has to.”

Bucky shrugs. “So let ‘em. There’ll be plenty of names in that Goblet. What are the odds that it’ll spit mine out?”

“Can’t you just, I don’t know, not compete?” Rebecca asks.

“No,” Natasha answers, “the Goblet’s answer is definitive.”

Rebecca sighs. “It’s been nice knowing you, Bucky.”

“Students of Durmstrang!” Pierce announces, bouncing to the front of their little assemblage. “It is time to make our arrival! If you’d follow me, please…” He turns on his heel and snaps his fingers twice, prompting them to follow.

The floor is still rumbling with Beauxbatons’ thunder as the students of Durmstrang approach the ornate double doors of the Great Hall. Pierce circles back to where he and Natasha stand and grips their shoulders like a vice.

“Just as we practiced now, alright?” He asks, tightening his grip with something akin to reassurance.

“How could we forget?” Natasha deadpans.

“Excellent.” Pierce says, not picking up on the sarcasm. He pushes Bucky and Natasha to the front, not allowing Bucky to so much as glance back at Rebecca who’s taking in the scene with watchful eyes, making sure Pierce isn’t pushing too hard to gripping too tight. The Barneses are a protective sort like that.

The thunder ceases and the ensuing applause is deafening even through the doorway. It must’ve been one Hell of a show. Maybe Carter socked someone in the middle of the room.

The applause dies down and Fury’s voice permeates through the thick wooden doors. “As you well know, there is a third school joining us in competition and study this year. I invite you now to give a warm welcome to the talented students of the Durmstrang Institute.”

“You ready?” Natasha asks, squaring her shoulders and drawing her wand.

“Not at all.” Bucky says, drawing his own.

With a flick of their wands the double doors fly open. A lit firework flies overhead, zipping into the room beyond and flitting about erratically. It soars high above the tables, nearly touching the rafters before exploding in a blast of brilliant light. 

The light takes the shape of a Romanian Longhorn. Bucky rolls his eyes at the obvious implications. The dragon’s thunderous roar marks their cue. With one last look at each other, Bucky and Natasha storm through the doorway, leading Durmstrang’s march through the dying fire.

For a few blissful moments, no one seems to recognize him. Maybe it’s the smoke or the ash or the fact that he’s in school uniform and not plastered all over the pages of The Prophet, but for just a brief instant, Bucky’s anonymous in a crowded room, something he hasn’t been in years. What he wouldn’t give to suspend this moment forever, to just be another face in the crowd.

“Blimey, that’s _him_ , isn’t it? That’s Bucky Barnes!”

Well, it’d been nice while it lasted.

“Your reputation precedes you.” Natasha murmurs, quiet and discreet enough that no one would know she’d spoken but him. 

“When doesn’t it?” He asks, not cocky, but bitter.

They reach the end of their march and form two lines along the length of the High Table, leaving room in the center for Pierce to stand. With their Headmaster in position between them, Bucky and Natasha lift their wands and produce a flaming, two headed eagle reminiscent of the one on the Durmstrang crest. It swoops high overhead before bursting into a rain of dazzling fireworks. The crowd goes wild for it. At least that’s what Bucky hopes they’re going wild for. He keeps his eyes down, unwilling to find out whether 1,200 pairs of eyes are looking at him or the impressive display above.

The question answers itself when a girl climbs atop the Hufflepuff table and shouts, “I LOVE YOU, BUCKY!” at the top of her voice. The applause only grows, along with Bucky’s blush. Pierce wraps an arm around him and gives him a playful squeeze. It’s supposed to look fatherly, of course, but it feels more like a tentacle threatening to suffocate him. He puts on a good show, though, leaning into Pierce’s hold and waving to the girl still standing on the Hufflepuff table.

Like he said, fame is a funny thing. He just wishes he was in on the joke.

“I think that’s quite enough.” Fury’s voice resonates through the hall, cutting through the fanfare like a knife. Bucky’s grateful for the unerring command he has over his students. “I introduce to you all my,” he pauses, presumably to search for a kindness to appoint to Pierce, “ _honored colleague_ ,” it’s stiff, but it passes, “Headmaster of Durmstrang Institute, Alexander Pierce.”

Pierce bows theatrically. “The honor is entirely mine, Headmaster. To be in the presence of such young, thriving minds is humbling.”

Bucky hears Natasha scoff and struggles to suppress the same reaction. “Humble”, as if Pierce knows the meaning of the word.

The tight look on Fury’s face says that he’s not buying it either. “Well put, Headmaster.” He says flatly. “I think you and your students will find yourselves at home with the Slytherins, if you care to join them.”

The Durmstrang students break formation and move towards the Slytherin table located at the far right of the room. Every head turns to follow Bucky.

“It’s amazing, don’t you think?” Natasha muses, falling into step at his side. “There are two people in this room with blue skin and yet you’re the one everyone’s staring at. You’re not even that good looking.”

A whistle attracts his attention towards the end of the Slytherin table, followed by two quick snaps and a shout of his name. “Barnes!” Tony Stark’s familiar face stands out from the crowd, looking expectant and impatient. “Come on, limited time offer here, pal.” He urges, patting the open seat beside him on the bench.

“Is that _Tony Stark_?” Rebecca asks, following behind with Natasha as Bucky moves to take the offered seat. “What’s he doing here?”

Bucky shrugs. “Maybe he just wants to be a normal kid for a while.” He can sure sympathize with that. He takes the open seat next to Tony while Rebecca and Natasha settle in across from them.

“I’m guessing we can skip the formalities here, then?” Tony asks, glancing around their group. “You know who I am.”

“And you know who we are?” Natasha asks skeptically.

Tony smirks. “Natasha Romanov, of the Romanov line. That’ll be Russian, if I’m not mistaken?”

Natasha smiles slowly. “Impressive.” 

Tony’s eyes flick to Rebecca. “Which makes you Rebecca Barnes. I hardly recognized you outside of your brother’s shadow.” Rebecca’s eyes flash dangerously. “Hey, no one knows more about living in a shadow than me, alright?

“Which brings us to you,” Tony says, turning to Bucky with a wolfish grin. “Nifty stunt you pulled in the semi-finals. What’s that broom of yours got in it? 110, 120 miles an hour?”

Bucky shrugs. “More or less.”

Starks eyes light up. “You ought to let me look at it. See if I can’t push it to 150.”

“That’s impossible.” Rebecca says smartly, clearly still stung about the shadow comment.

Tony’s grin only grows. “It’s only impossible when I say it’s impossible.” He says cockily.

“Students, if I could borrow just another moment of your time.” Fury says, not so much asking for a moment as taking it. “As I mentioned, there are a few rules to the Tournament I feel the need to go over with you.”

“Would it kill him to serve an appetizer during his monologue?” Tony mumbles.

“The Tri-Wizard Tournament, as I’m sure most of you are well aware, consists of three tasks.” Fury explains. “Three extremely dangerous tasks, the likes of which you have never seen. Believe me when I tell you that this contest is not for the faint of heart.”

A door behind the High Table opens and several men emerge, carrying a tall gilded capsule covered in ancient runes.

“The Hell you reckon that is?” Bucky asks, watching as the men struggle under the burden.

“Something tells me we’re about to find out.” Natasha says.

“Thank you, gentlemen.” Fury says as the men drop the capsule, nearly as tall as he is, at his feet. Fury runs a hand over the golden inscriptions. “Each competing school is allowed one Champion to represent them during the Tournament.” He says. Bucky glances at Pierce, who’s already watching him with knowing eyes. Bucky looks away, metal fist clenching beneath the table.

“Now, let me be clear.” Fury says gravely. “If you are chosen to compete, you compete _alone_. You are to receive no outside help from anyone, including friends and teachers. Cheating is frowned upon and will result in disqualification from the Tournament as well as an inquisition from the Ministry.”

“Someone better repeat that one to Pierce.” Rebecca mumbles. 

Bucky doesn’t dare look at his Headmaster again, but he’s pretty sure Pierce is wearing a villainous grin, one that says cheating is only illegal if you get caught.

“An understanding of advanced magic is required not only to survive, but to compete.” Fury continues. He takes a deep breath and sighs, steeling himself for what he knows is coming. “It is for this reason that my colleagues and I have imposed an age restriction on the Tournament, allowing only for volunteers of legal wizarding age to participate. That’s seventeen, for those who are unfamiliar.”

The Great Hall erupts with cries of indignation. “THAT’S RUBBISH,” from the Hufflepuffs. “YOU CAN’T DO THAT,” from the Ravenclaws. “THAT’S A LOAD OF BULLSHIT,” from a few seats away at the Slytherin table.

Fury opens his mouth to speak several times, but the chatter swells with every attempt. Bucky watches Fury’s patience wear thin until it runs out altogether. “THAT’S ENOUGH!” 

The Great Hall falls silent immediately. Fury draws his wand and waves it over the golden capsule before him. The hostile glares turn into wide-eyed looks of awe as the capsule melts away, leaving only a massive stone goblet in its place. It’s nowhere near as large as its golden vessel but the goblet still stands tall enough to reach Fury’s waist. It blazes with a bright blue fire; flames lick the air as they reach towards the ceiling above.

“The Goblet of Fire.” Fury says, staring into the flames. “Students wishing to participate in the Tournament need only write their names and their schools on a piece of parchment before placing it in the flames. The Goblet will act as an impartial judge and select what it considers to be the best student from each school.” He explains. “This should be done by this hour on this night next week. But be warned,” he says, his eye narrowing as it scans the faces before him, “if you are chosen, there’s no going back.”

A hand shoots up at the Gryffindor table.

Fury sighs. “Yes, Mr. Barton?”

“Here we go.” Tony says, rolling his eyes. “Come on, Clint. Don’t ask a stupid question, don’t ask a stupid question…”

“What do we win?” Clint asks. “If it’s so dangerous, the payoff’s gotta be worth it, right?” Interested whispers bloom around the Hall.

Fury sighs deeply, as close to an eye roll as he can get while maintaining his professionalism. “Aside from the recognition and glory that comes with being a Tri-Wizard Champion, there will also be a handsome monetary prize awarded to the winner.”

“How much we talkin’ here?” Clint asks.

“25,000 galleons.” Fury says.

Excited chatter spreads around the Hall like fiendfyre. Bucky turns to Rebecca and Natasha, both wearing expressions of shock that mirror his own.

“Pierce certainly forgot to mention that.” Natasha says. “Sounds to me like 25,000 reasons to throw your name in the Goblet.”

“Like he’d see a knut of it.” Bucky growls. “He throws me in, fine, but that money’s goin’ towards something decent. I’m not gonna sit around and watch Pierce blow it on fur cloaks.”

Tony snickers beside him. “Oh, man. I’ve got to introduce you to Steve.” His eyes light up like he’s just now realized something he should have a lot sooner. “I’ve _got_ to introduce to you Steve.” He repeats breathlessly.

“Are there any more questions?” Fury asks, casting one last glance around the room. “No?” He asks when no one speaks up. “Then as of this moment, the Tri-Wizard Tournament has begun.” As if sensing the energy in the room, the Goblet’s fire hisses and flickers, burning brighter and higher. “Without further delay, I think it’s time we dig into the food our House Elves were kind enough to prepare for us.”

“Come on; let me introduce you to the guys!” Tony says eagerly, springing up from the table to eagerly tug on Bucky’s arm.

“But—”

“No buts!” Tony says sternly, continuing to tug insistently. “You see what I’m doing right now?” He asks, gesturing to himself with the hand not currently wrapped around Bucky’s forearm. “That’s called _standing_ , which means I’ve already committed myself to _moving_. There’s no going back from here. Besides, Gryffindor always has the best treacle tart. The Elves probably didn’t think anyone would notice, but I did! It’s filthy, filthy politics, I’m telling you.”

Bucky looks to Natasha, silently pleading for her to put an end to this. Naturally, she does the exact opposite. “Mind if we tag along?” She asks, sickly sweet in the way she only uses when she really, really wants something. Bucky kicks her swiftly under the table. Twice, for good measure. She doesn’t even blink.

“The more the merrier!” Tony says.

Bucky doesn’t miss the triumphant grin on Natasha’s face as she rounds the table to join them, Rebecca hot on her heels. “I’m on to you.” He says menacingly. Her grin only grows.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

Bucky resigns with a sigh and allows himself to be pulled from the safety of the table into the scrutiny of hundreds of starry-eyed gazes. Tony is practically skipping as he drags Bucky across the Hall. “You know, I can’t help but think that this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship.” He muses aloud. “Steve really looks up to you, you know?” _Literally_ , he thinks, _he’s got a poster of you above his bed_. He laughs to himself, imagining the look on Rogers’s face if he just so happened to let that secret slip.

“Is that so?” Bucky asks.

“Oh yeah,” Tony laughs. “R _ooo_ -gers!” He calls across the room. “Steve, dear, where are you? I’ve got someone I’d like for you to meet!”

“Right over here!” Bucky recognizes Clint’s voice. He watches Clint stand on his bench and wave Tony down.

Tony cackles like mad and quickens his step. “How’s about I give you a little run down, alright? Take the edge off a bit?” Bucky doesn’t respond one way or the other. Tony doesn’t seem to mind. “Well first, you’ve got Rhodey. Best guy in the whole world, alright? He’s too good for us, honestly, and probably the only reason we’re still alive, what with the Giant Squid incident and all.” Tony visibly shudders. Bucky refrains from asking.

“Who else…who else…” Tony ponders. “Well, there’s Thor.” He chuckles. “He, too, is a firm believer in the man-bun. So you’ll bond about that.” He says, tugging at the loose knot at the back of Bucky’s head. “Comes off a bit strong, at first, but you’ll grow to love him.”

“Bit ironic coming from you, don’t you think?” Bucky asks.

“Touché.” Tony laughs. “Alright, who else we got… Oh, Barton!” He says with a snap of his fingers. “Bring him coffee and ask him about his dog: I cannot stress the importance of that enough.”

“Is he here? The dog?” Rebecca asks.

“Nah, he wishes, but don’t think he hasn’t tried. He wrapped him up in an invisibility cloak in our Fourth Year. Nearly made it all the way to the dorms before Darcy’s cat got loose and Lucky chased it straight into Fury’s office. Shoulda seen Clint’s face, though. _Priceless_.”

Tony hums thoughtfully. “Can’t forget Sam, of course. That’d be Rogers’s partner in crime. Though—is it really crime if it’s for a good cause?” He ponders. He shrugs it off after a moment’s thought. “That’s beside the point, the point being that where you find Wilson, you find Rogers, and where you find Rogers, you find trouble. Trouble that Sam usually wants no part in but isn’t given much of a choice about.”

Rebecca scoffs. “I feel him on that.”

Tony clucks his tongue. “Them’s the breaks when you chain yourself to a liberalist political comet, kid.” He says bluntly. “Which brings us to Steve himself. He’s a good guy so long as you like ‘em big and muscly and radically philanthropic.”

As it so happens, that’s _exactly_ how Bucky likes them… He works to keep his expression neutral and his eyes as far from Natasha’s as humanly possible. He can practically feel them boring holes into the back of his head and he knows that anything he says can and _will_ be used against him for an indefinite amount of time. But he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t…curious.

“Radically philanthropic?” He asks.

“Sure, Fury’s got Rogers in his office every other day with some new idea for ‘the betterment of Hogwarts’. Between you and me, I think it’s only a matter of time until Fury throws in the towel and just hands Steve the school.”

“Well, what do you know,” Natasha says slowly, “ _a bleeding heart philanthropist_.”

“Natasha, _no_.” Bucky warns.

“Natasha, _yes!_ ” Rebecca cries.

“Would you two just—,”

“There he is!” Tony cries, letting Bucky go and rushing to the Gryffindor table. He runs up behind a blond boy who looks like he’s trying his best to disparate on the spot. Tony catches him around the neck in a playful chokehold, ruffling his meticulously parted hair until its standing wildly on all ends. “How’s my favorite crusader against all that is unjust?”

“Tony, stop!” Steve complains, wrestling against Tony’s grip. “Tony—Tony, I’m serious, cut it out!” He chokes.

Tony cackles and lets him go, ruffling his hair one last time before taking a seat beside who Bucky can only assume is Rhodey, given the less than impressed expression on his face. Tony looks expectantly around the table. “Well, are you guys going to welcome our guests or not?” He scoffs. “Chivalrous, my ass.”

Rhodey stands and reaches across the table, offering his hand to Bucky. “James Rhodes, you can call me Rhodey, though. I apologize for anything he may have said to you.” He says, nodding to Tony. “And I apologize in advance for all the things he’s going to say in the future.”

Bucky laughs and shakes his hand before stepping aside to let Natasha and Rebecca do the same. “James Barnes,” he says, “call me Bucky.”

Clint hops over the table, sending cutlery flying this way and that only to land gracelessly in front of Natasha. “Clint Barton.” He says breathlessly, taking her hand to kiss it tenderly. “Call me Hawkeye, all the pretty girls do.”

“Pretty girls being his mother.” Tony teases.

Clint rounds on Tony. “She, among _many_ others!”

Natasha smirks. Bucky knows that smirk. Bucky lives in _fear_ of that smirk. It says that she’s about to have one Hell of a lot of fun with Clint. “Natasha.” She says simply.

“Natasha,” Clint repeats with a smile. Bucky rolls his eyes. He gives it a week.

A great, hulking shadow looming over him is all the warning Bucky gets before he’s swept into a bone-crushing hug. “It is an honor to meet you, James Barnes!”

“Great—to meet you—too, pal!” He wheezes, patting the back of his captor.

“Thor, drop it!” Tony barks.

Thor drops him. Bucky catches his breath and looks up _and up_ until he reaches Thor’s face. It’s like looking into the sun, for Merlin’s sake. “How’s it goin’, Thor?” Bucky asks.

“It goes excellent!” He says. “I have heard many things of you!”

“All good things, I hope.” Bucky says.

Thor smirks. “I assure you, I have heard only the best.”

“We all have.” Clint says as he settles back into his seat. “Many, _many_ times.” 

Thor moves to welcome Natasha and Rebecca with the same enthusiasm. Rebecca ducks behind Natasha and Natasha holds up a hand to stop him. “Maybe some other time.” She says. 

“Don’t mind him. They do things different where he’s from.” The boy next to Steve says. “Sam Wilson, how you guys doing?”

“Better once we get some food.” Rebecca says, rubbing at her growling stomach.

“Ain’t that the truth?” Sam says.

“Say, Rogers, why don’t you pull some strings and get the Elves to send the food up some time before we graduate.” Tony says.

Steve, who’s been doing his best to hide behind Sam this entire time, sighs. “That joke gets better every year, Tony.”

Bucky looks around the room, expecting the House Elves to march in at any moment, carrying individual plates for every student like they do at Durmstrang. “Where are they?” He asks.

“Where are who?” Tony asks, shaking out his napkin and tucking it into the collar of his shirt.

“The House Elves.” 

Tony looks baffled. “Home? Asleep? On a bender? Hell if I know.”

“They don’t have to stay?” Bucky asks, thinking of the shameful conditions that Durmstrang’s Elves are forced to live in, sleeping under tables and inside cabinets.

“Why the Hell would they do that?” Clint asks.

“Don’t they live in the castle?” Bucky asks.

Tony snorts. “Not since Rogers here twisted Fury’s arm into setting them up in the old grounds keeper’s hut.”

“Tony, don’t—”

Sam speaks over Steve, turning to Bucky with a proud grin. “Steve hung back over Christmas break a couple years ago, clearing the place out and setting it up. Not bad digs, considering.”

“They ought to have their own dorms.” Steve mumbles. Bucky can hardly hear him; he’s hunched so far over the table he’s practically kissing the mahogany.

“What a coincidence.” Natasha says, oozing with false surprise. “You know, Bucky is _really_ interested in Elfish welfare, too.”

“You don’t say?” Sam says.

“Well, what good is this Tournament if not to promote international magical cooperation?” Tony joins in. “Who knows, maybe Steve could show him a thing or two.” Bucky doesn’t miss the innuendo. By the sight of the blush creeping steadily up his neck, neither does Steve.

They’re saved by the arrival of the food, which appears suddenly, in the blink of an eye. One minute Bucky’s looking at an empty table, the next it’s overflowing from end to end and edge to edge, no space left unfilled. There are at least four different types of meat, eight different kinds of vegetables, four dessert trays, and several pitchers of juice, and that’s just in their area of the table alone.

“You wanna stare at it, or do you wanna eat it?” Clint asks, dishing himself a healthy serving of mashed potatoes that nearly fills his whole plate.

Bucky picks his jaw up off the floor and looks for a space along the benches. Clint’s already shuffling aside to make room for Natasha on his left and Thor’s already offered his seat to Rebecca, choosing to stand with his plate in his hand.

“Got a seat for you right here.” Sam says brightly, shuffling aside and patting the open space between himself and Steve. Steve’s blush is burning all the way up his ears now, Hell, Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if his whole face was about as red as the tie around his neck.

“You don’t gotta do that.” Bucky says. “I can go back to—”

“If you don’t sit your ass down...” Sam threatens playfully, grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him into the seat. “Steve, pass the man some treacle tart. You know we got the hook up on the treacle tart.”

“I KNEW IT!” Tony screams around a mouth full of Yorkshire putting.

Steve turns and reaches down the table. Bucky gets a glimpse of the muscles Tony had mentioned earlier, hidden under a tight black sweater. Steve turns back with the tray of treacle tart and hands it to Bucky.

“Thanks,” Bucky says, taking the tray before glancing up and getting his first look at Steve Rogers.

The treacle tart hits the ground a moment later.

Tony failed to mention _this_ , and quite frankly, Bucky could have used the warning. Maybe he could have prepared himself for blue eyes and a shy smile, for a pink blush blooming on faintly freckled cheeks. Instead he’s just gaping like an idiot in the face of a goddamn angel with a tray full of treacle tart splattered on the ground between them. 

“Butterfingers, Barnes?” Natasha asks, doe-eyed and innocent.

“Aw, man!” Tony whines, cheeks still full to burst. “Not the tweekle tawt!”

Serves him right, Bucky thinks. That’s what he gets for conveniently leaving “Merlin’s gift to man.” out of his description of Steve Rogers.


	3. First Day of Classes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I always say this, but you guys...are...amazing... You have left me totally speechless once again and I just...wow...there are NO words.
> 
> So this update took a little longer than I would have liked. I'm having writer's block like crazy (see the war ground that is my unfinished epilogue of Leap Year, for example), but this chapter FINALLY came together and I'm excited to get it out to you guys!!!
> 
> I want to thank everyone again for your support and kindness! You're all SO lovely and I can't begin to tell you what it means to be for you to be enjoying this. Feel free to come and drop me some suggestions or critisisms or just come tell me about your day or something. I also mentioned this in my last notes, but I'll say it again: Any headcannons you guys have about this story or Hogwarts AUs in general are welcome, if you have suggestions to make that you'd like to see in the story. I'm gonna try my hardest to fit them all in there and I'd be sure to credit you for your ideas. I just want this to be as fun for you guys as it is for me!
> 
> OKAY! No more rambling: Let's watch Steve make an adorable ass of himself.

_Do something, you idiot!_ Steve thinks. _Say something!_ He can’t be sure how long he’s been staring at the tempting curve of Bucky’s lips, but he’s pretty sure it’s long enough to make the silence stretching between them uncomfortable.

“Hi.” He blurts at last.

_Brilliant._

Those perfect lips curl into a smile. “Hi.” Bucky says. “Bucky Barnes.” He adds, holding his hand out for Steve to shake.

_I know. I’ve been in love with you since I was fifteen._

“Steve Rogers.” Steve says. In his haste to shake Bucky’s hand he knocks over a jug of pumpkin juice, spilling it over Bucky’s coat, soaking the fabric completely.

Tony snorts into his hand. Sam at least has the mercy to cover his laughter as a coughing fit.

“I—I’m—,” Steve stutters, tripping over a dozen different apologies. “I’m so—Bucky, I’m—”

“You’re fine,” Bucky says, reaching for the buttons of his jacket. “It was getting too hot in this thing anyway. You did me a favor, really.” He shrugs his coat off, revealing the fitted black shirt beneath it. Steve wonders if it’s regulation that all Durmstrang’s shirts be that _tight_. Bucky tosses his coat beneath the table and sighs. “Much better.”

Steve can’t help but agree. 

Bucky reaches for the steak and kidney pie in front of Clint. Steve catches his wrist, thankfully managing to do so without upending any more juice. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” he says quickly, “it’s a bit hit or miss.” He adds lamely.

“Here, try the spotted dick,” Natasha says. “You like dick, don’t you?” She asks innocently, grabbing the bowl to her left and offering it to Bucky.

Juice comes out of Clint’s nose, but Bucky isn’t laughing. “As a matter of fact, I _do_.” He says stiffly, taking the bowl from Natasha with a little more force than is entirely necessary. “Thanks, _Nat_.”

“Say, you ought to pass that Steve’s way when you’re done.” Clint says, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his sweater. “He’s a pretty big fan of dick himself.”

“I get the feeling we are no longer speaking about pudding.” Thor says with a chuckle.

Steve buries his face in his hands. “This isn’t happening.” He mumbles into his palms.

He’s saved by the grace of a polite cough from behind, too feminine to be Thor and too pointed to have been genuine. Steve turns around to find Connie Alves twisting a strand of brunette hair nervously around her finger. She clears her throat again with her eyes set on Bucky.

Steve’s heart sinks a little. Connie’s brilliant. She’s smart and she’s kind and she always brings the best snacks to the MBPBRC meetings and makes a point of staying late to help clean up. She also happens to carry the same torch that Steve does, one that burns white hot for Bucky Barnes. Hell, she’d just climbed atop the Hufflepuff table and screamed it for the world to hear (not that Steve wasn’t tempted to do the same thing, mind you.) She’s an easy girl to like, and that’s why Steve can’t bring himself to watch as Bucky turns around and comes face to face with her bright smile.

“Hi, Bucky.” She says. 

Steve stabs at his carrots. She says hello like it’s nothing and he spills juice. Great.

“Hey,” Bucky says. “Weren’t you the girl who…”

“Stood on the table, yeah.” Connie finishes for him, blushing prettily and tucking her bangs behind her ear. “Got a little carried away. It’s not every day that a guy like you comes along.”

Steve takes a particularly vicious stab at his carrots, accidentally bending the prongs of his fork. He sets it aside and starts in on his soup, stirring it moodily rather than actually eating it.

“I was wondering,” Connie continues, “if you’re not doing anything after dinner, I could show you around.” She offers politely. So damn politely that Steve can’t even bring himself to be mad at her. He just wishes he’d had the courage to offer himself.

Bucky goes to answer, but Tony’s quick to cut him off. “You know, I think Steve was just about to do that, actually. Weren’t you, Steve?” He asks, looking his way expectantly.

“I—uh,” Steve gapes soundlessly for a moment, looking between Tony and the bowl of pea green sludge in front of him. He chances a glance at Bucky, and maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but he looks relieved and maybe even a little hopeful. At this point, he’ll take any excuse he can in order to escape this table without another dick joke. There’s a gleam in Tony’s eye that says he has one ready to go at a moment’s notice. “Yeah, I was.” He says finally.

“I shoulda known,” Connie says with a playful smirk. “Well, I won’t keep you, then. Groot and his buddies snuck in a trunk full of Mandrakes and hid them in Greenhouse 4. If you can manage to nick a couple earmuffs, you ought to check them out before they fall asleep.”

“You do realize that involves stealing from the Herbology room _and_ breaking in to the Greenhouse, right?” Rhodey points out.

“Let’s do it.” Steve says.

“Of course.” Rhodey sighs.

“Come on,” Steve says, getting up from the table and nodding towards the open doors. “No one’s around to stop us.”

“You’re serious?” Bucky asks. His blue eyes narrow and rake down Steve’s body. “You don’t strike me as a rule breaker.”

Sam scoffs. “Remind me to tell you about the year that Gryffindor finished dead last in the House Cup.”

Steve winces. “It wasn’t that bad…”

“Negative two thousand points,” Sam clarifies. “Negative.”

Bucky whistles low and cocks a brow. “And that was all you?” He asks Steve.

Steve fidgets, “I mean, I may have…contributed…” He says evasively.

“If you consider 1,500 of those points ‘contributing’.” Clint says, air quotes and all.

Bucky grins and stands as well, pulling his coat from beneath the bench and shrugging it on quickly. “Well, what are we waiting for?” He asks. “Lead the way, troublemaker.”

Steve blushes at the nickname and turns to leave. A small hand on his shoulder stops him. It takes him a moment to realize that it’s Connie, pulling him down to her eye level with a firm grip. “I want stories, Rogers.” She hisses, quietly enough that Bucky remains oblivious standing mere feet away. Steve nods quickly and tries to move. Connie tugs him back to her side. “I want _details_.” She says, gripping the knot of his tie fiercely. “Leave _nothing_ out.”

Steve blinks. “Okay?”

Connie smiles and shoves him away. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Steve stumbles back to Bucky’s side, straightening his tie and glancing over his shoulder. Rhodey looks particularly weary, though that’s unsurprising. Thor is waving him off and Clint offers him a mock salute. Tony makes a crude gesture with his hands and thankfully Rhodey is there to smack it down before either Natasha or Rebecca notice. Sam looks insufferably smug as he mouths ‘Good luck!’ and throws him a supportive thumbs-up. Steve blushes and faces forwards again.

It’s going to be a long year.

***

Steve pins Bucky against the door of the empty Transfiguration classroom and tries not to think of the look on Professor Darkhölme’s face should she ever find out about this.

“It’s getting late. They’re gonna wonder where we went.” Steve whispers against Bucky’s lips, swollen and red from feverish kisses.

“So let ‘em,” Bucky growls back, “but don’t you dare stop.” He fists his hands in Steve’s hair and reclaims his lips, tugging the bottom one between his teeth and sucking until Steve surrenders a broken gasp. “ _Steve_ ,” he whispers, soft and desperate.

Steve can hear footsteps just outside the door, drawing closer. Someone’s coming. Someone must have heard…

“Bucky—”

“Don’t stop.” Bucky whines. “ _Steve, come on._ ” Bucky’s fingers fall from his hair to his tie, tugging harder and harder, keeping Steve as close as possible.

The footsteps are upon them, but Steve’s not stopping. He can’t. _He can’t._ He’s wanted this for too long and he’s scared that if he stops now, he’ll never be allowed to have it again. He’ll take all the detentions Darkhölme can dish out. If he can just have _this_ …the press of Bucky’s lips against his own, Bucky’s body under his hands…

He slides his thigh between Bucky’s legs, pressing him harder against the door. “ _Steve, Steve!_ ” Bucky gasps. His head falls back and Steve can’t resist temptation. He drops heavy, open-mouthed kisses along the column of Bucky’s throat, sucking bruises into the skin.

“ _Steve…_ ”

The door swings open. Light floods the dark classroom.

“STEVE, COME ON! GET UP!”

_THWAP!_

Steve cracks an eye. Sam is standing over his bed, armed with a pillow and ready to strike again. He groans and rolls over, dragging his sheets over his head. If he tries, he thinks he can still feel Bucky’s lips against his…

_THWAP!_

“Alright, alright! I’m up!”

“It’s about time!” Sam teases.

“What time’s it?” Steve slurs.

“Time for you to get your sorry ass out of bed.” Sam yanks Steve’s sheets away and tosses them to the ground. “Come on, Clint’s up, and _that’s_ saying something.”

Steve whines and buries his face in his pillow, still trying to pull himself from his dream. The bright sunlight and fresh air streaming through the open windows is a far cry from Professor Darkhölme’s classroom, but he can’t seem to shake the way Bucky’s body felt beneath his hands, dream or no dream.

_THWAP!_

“Sam!”

“Alright, alright. Last one, I promise.” Sam says, tossing his pillow back on his bed in surrender. “What time did you get back last night?”

Steve rubs his eyes. “I don’t remember.” He mumbles. “Twelve? One?”

“Rogers, you dog! Didn’t know you had it in you.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Nothing happened. We just talked.”

“ _Talked_ ,” Sam scoffs and crosses the room to Steve’s wardrobe, “you think I don’t know what that means?” He starts throwing clothes at Steve, his pants, his tie, a pair of socks. 

A shirt lands on Steve’s face and he sighs hard enough to move the fabric. It’s the thought of Professor Howlett’s stern expression and his intolerance for tardiness that finally drags Steve out of bed. He pulls the shirt from his face and glowers at Sam when he recognizes his Romanian Longhorns jersey. “Not funny.” He mumbles, tossing the shirt aside.

Sam snickers. “It’s _kinda_ funny.” He reaches back into Steve’s wardrobe and pulls out a white button up and a black sweater. “Come on, man, spill. Was it everything you thought it’d be? Where’d you do it? I heard the boat house can be real romantic.”

Steve glares at Sam and reaches for his button up. “Nothing happened, Sam.” He repeats firmly.

“Fine, nothing happened,” Sam says appeasably. “Will you at least tell me what you two talked about?” He asks.

“Stuff, Sam, I don’t know!” Steve says vaguely, buttoning his shirt to the top before reaching for his sweater. To Sam’s unwavering stare, he shrugs. “We talked about a lot of things; I can’t remember.”

That’s a lie, of course. While he and Bucky may have talked about a lot of things last night, Steve remembers all of it, from the sly smiles to the playful teases and everything in between. Steve wants to tell Sam all about it, Hell, he wants to tell anyone who will listen, but he just doesn’t think he can do justice to the memory of how Bucky looks when he laughs. He busies himself by pretending to be caught in the neck of his sweater.

The bathroom door opens and Clint walks in, groggy and grumpy, clad in only his boxers with a coffee mug in each hand and a towel wrapped elegantly around his head. Steve’s grateful for his appearance, since it seems to divert Sam’s attention for the time being.

“You were up early.” Sam says.

“Yeah,” Clint says bitterly, “ _someone_ woke me up. Have a good dream, Rogers?” He asks innocently. “Oh, _Bucky! Bucky!_ Oh— _ah!_ ” He moans theatrically.

Steve’s head pops free from his sweater. “I don’t sound like that!” He appeals to Sam. “Do I sound like that?”

Sam suddenly finds something incredibly interesting in Steve’s wardrobe, given the way he’s fussing with it. “I mean—I’m not gonna say you _don’t_ sound like that…” 

Steve lunges across the bed, sending pillows flying this way and that in an attempt to give Sam the hard whack off the back of the head that he deserves. Sam twists out of the way and sprints across the room, grabbing the Falcon and rushing to the open window. “Gotta be faster than that!” He shouts, leaping through the window before Steve can lay a hand on him. He gets his broom beneath him and takes to the sky. The wind carries his laughter back to Steve, who flips him off before slamming the window shut.

As it turns out, Steve and Clint have History of Magic together. He waits patiently while Clint dresses, taking the time to run a wet cloth over his face and brush his teeth before heading out the door. And if he so happens to unscrew the posts of Sam’s bed while Clint has his back turned, well…

The halls are buzzing with gossip this morning. Steve catches snatches of conversations as he and Clint navigate the chaotic corridors with the practiced ease that comes with having done this for seven years. A blush creeps up his neck when he catches the tail end of a Slytherin girl’s whisper about how she’d seen Bucky Barnes stepping out of the shower this morning. It’s bad enough that every time he catches a glimpse of a blood red coat he’s reminded of a boyish grin and contagious laughter, but now he’s got that mental image to deal with, too.

“I take it last night went well, then?” Clint asks as they round a corner, deftly avoiding a parade of oncoming first years that have yet to learn the flow of traffic in the halls. He ignores Steve’s answering scowl. “Come on, Rogers, fess up. Are you still pure as the driven snow?” He teases.

“I met him _yesterday_.”

“You’ve been in love with him for _two years_.” Clint argues. “Nothing? Not even a kiss?”

“No.” Steve says firmly.

“A hug?”

“ _No._ ”

“A little over the pants action?”

“ _Clint!_ ”

Clint relents. “I’m sorry, alright? Come on, I’ll stop.” When Steve continues to scowl, Clint steps in front of him, walking backwards. “You gonna see him again?”

Steve’s stony expression melts. “I hope so.” He says earnestly.

Clint pretends to gag. “Come on, Steve. I can’t handle this much melodrama before my third cup.” He says. “Speaking of which…” He spins around a plucks a coffee cup from a random passerby, ignoring their indignant squawks of protest. “Did you tell him that?”

“No,” Steve admits, shoulders sagging. “It’s not that simple.”

Clint gives him a disbelieving look over the rim of his mug. “Not that simple?” He echoes.

Steve shrugs. “Look at him, Clint. The whole world’s in love with him. Maybe all he needs is a friend.”

“Well, why don’t you ask him yourself?” Clint asks, craning his neck to look at something ahead. “He’s headed this way.”

“Where?” Steve asks, ducking behind a statue of Rowena Ravenclaw and wishing he’d taken the extra time to run a comb through his hair.

Clint doubles over with laughter. “Oh—Oh, shit, your _face_ , Rogers! Oh, this is gonna be a good year!”

***

Professor Howlett’s classroom is a lot like the man himself. Although it’s not nearly as grim as Darkhölme’s, it’s not quite as homey as Erskine’s, either. The walls are bare and the air is stuffy and the windows are rarely ever open unless Howlett breaks out an especially dusty collection of texts for them to review.

Steve walks through the door and immediately spots Pepper’s strawberry blonde head of hair at the front of the class. He and Clint settle in at the table behind her, Clint on the right and Steve to his left. Steve recognizes a few other familiar faces around the room, including that of Gabe Jones. He’s sitting further towards the back with his face obscured by _A History of Magic Volume 7_ ; alone save for the messenger bag beside him. If it were anyone else, this wouldn’t strike Steve as odd, but for Gabe to be by himself is a particularly worrisome sight.

Steve glances at Professor Howlett’s empty desk before calling to Gabe across the room. It takes a few tries, but eventually Gabe looks up from his book, blinking owlishly. “Where are the guys?” Steve asks, nodding to the empty tables around Gabe.

Gabe rolls his eyes and shakes his head gravely. “Somewhere they shouldn’t be.” He says somberly.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Jones,” Pepper says, employing her Head Girl voice while fishing through her bag for a quill.

Stick him with any other group and Gabe is just a normal guy, but in the rag tag team he runs with he might as well be a saint. He’s studious, though his friends constantly find ways to equate that to being boring. If getting decent grades and a good night’s rest is their idea of boring, Gabe is just fine being the kill-joy of the group. He’ll be the one laughing when he’s sitting on The Minister’s council and they’re scrubbing the toilets.

“Should I be worried?” Steve asks.

“I am.” Gabe says before disappearing behind his book once again.

“I didn’t hear that, either.” Pepper says.

Students continue to trickle through the door until ten o’clock, at which point Professor Howlett walks in and silence falls over the classroom. He stands in the doorway with his hands on his hips, surveying the class with tired eyes. His stare lingers on the empty tables surrounding Gabe. He enters the room slowly, leather boots scuffing loudly against the worn wooden floors. He shrugs off his leather jacket and throws it over the back of his chair, revealing the tight white tank top underneath that the students of Hogwarts have come to regard as his uniform. He reaches into the top drawer of his desk and produces a cigar, which he lights with his wand before placing between his lips, puffing at leisurely as he turns to address the class.

Don’t let the cigar fool you; Professor Howlett takes his job _very_ seriously. He’s not supposed to be influencing these kids, he’s supposed to be teaching them. You want to pass out during his lesson? Great. You’re thinking about cutting his class? Be his guest. Just don’t be surprised when he slaps a pop quiz on your desk with a smirk and a middle finger. Professor Howlett isn’t exactly winning awards in congeniality, but his tough-love method of teaching is surprisingly effective. There’s a rumor going around that he only teaches this shit because he’s lived through half of it. Steve didn’t believe it at first, but then an incriminating photo popped up in one of their text books placing their Professor at the American Civil war. Steve’s been a believer ever since.

“History of Magic.” Professor Howlett says gruffly. “I assume you’re all in the right class?” He asks. He sounds about as bored as he looks. “Great.” He says when no one answers. “For those of you who do not know, my name is Professor Logan Howlett. Today you—”

A gentle knock on the door brings everyone’s attention towards Peggy Carter standing in the doorway. “I’m sorry, sir.” Peggy says, squaring her shoulders and keeping her head high in the face of Howlett’s scowl. “History of Magic?”

Professor Howlett grunts something that could be a confirmation.

“Forgive me, but the stairs…” She trails off, but the look on her face speaks volumes of her experience with the spinning stairs. Steve remembers his first time. He’d puked over the railing.

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” Professor Howlett says, waving her towards the open seat next to Pepper.

Peggy nods curtly and crosses the room, taking the suggested seat. Under the guise of sliding her bag beneath her chair, she leans in towards Pepper and whispers under her breath. “Bit of a jackass, isn’t he?”

“You have no idea.” Pepper whispers back.

“As I was saying,” Professor Howlett begins again, “today you’ll be…”

He’s interrupted again by the sound of thunderous footsteps approaching his classroom. It sounds like a stampede coming down the hall, footfalls echoing around the empty corridors and bouncing off the stone walls, rising to a crescendo as four boys try to stumble through the doorway at once only to get stuck in the frame.

“Oh Hell,” Gabe mumbles, sinking into his seat.

The boys continue to wriggle and writhe until they spring free and fall to the floor in a heap, moaning about sharp elbows and bony asses.

“The Hell’s all this?” Howlett growls.

The boy on top of the pile looks up from beneath the brim of his bowler hat. “Howling Commandos reporting for duty, sir.” He says timidly, shrinking under Professor Howlett’s glare.

Howlett’s expression softens immediately. “Oh yeah?” He asks. “What is it this time?”

The boy rolls off his friends (not without loud protest and shouts of agony) and reaches for his messenger bag. He pulls out a bottle of Firewhiskey bigger than his own head. “Nicked it from his office.”

Professor Howlett takes the bottle, inspecting it with interest. “Does he know it’s gone?”

The boy shrugs. “He’s got an idea,” he says vaguely.

Professor Howlett chuckles and slides the bottle into the top drawer of his desk. “Fifty points to Hufflepuff.” He announces.

Steve’s not quite sure how it came to be, but at some point over the last seven years, Professor Howlett took these five (“Dum Dum” Dugan, Jim Morita, “Monty” Falsworth, Jacques Dernier and Gabe, when he can be persuaded) under his wing, using them and their penchant for pranking in order to extract frequent (and sometimes downright cruel) revenge on Professor Summers. It’s for that reason that on the days when Summers is most red in the face, Hufflepuff sees the greatest increase in House Points.

“Is he allowed to do that?” Peggy asks quietly as the Howling Commandos make their way to the back of the classroom, high fiving and laughing all the way.

Pepper, who’s been doing her best to pretend she’s not seeing or hearing and of this, shakes her head. “Absolutely not.”

“Let’s try this again, alright?” Professor Howlett asks after the Commandos have settled in. “Today…” he pauses and glances at the door before continuing, “you’ll be reading about the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Turn to page 560 of your books and—,”

“HOWLETT!”

Professor Summers appears in the doorway, clothes singed and hair smoking, covered in ash everywhere but beneath the thick goggles over his eyes. 

“Did you do something with your hair?” Professor Howlett asks. 

Professor Summers’s jaw ticks dangerously and he points an accusing finger at the Commandos. “Your students hid a Bombastic Bomb under my desk!” He shouts. 

Professor Howlett looks personally affronted. “That’s a Hell of an accusation to make. Can you prove it?” 

Professor Summers hesitates. “No.” He admits. 

“Then get the fuck out. I’m teaching.” Professor Howlett says dismissively, relighting his cigar with his wand. The silent, “Fuck you,” is heavily implied.

Professor Summers lingers in the doorway for another moment before turning on his heel, slamming the door and leaving the lingering smell of smoke behind him. 

“Did I say fifty?” Professor Howlett asks. “Make that a hundred. Good work, boys.”

“Where the Hell did they get a Bombastic Bomb?” Clint asks in awe. “Those’re harder to get than the whiskey is.”

“It wasn’t a Bombastic Bomb; otherwise I’d have confiscated it.” Pepper says. “Jacques made it himself, it’s his own design.”

Clint’s eyes bug out of his head. “You _knew_? But you’re the Head Girl!”

Pepper flushes a bit beneath her freckles. “Summers gave me an Acceptable on my O.W.L. exam.” She says defensively. “I deserved an Outstanding!”

“So you let him build a _bomb_?” Steve asks.

“You should see the things I’ve let Tony get away with.” She says with a shudder.

Professor Howlett falls into his chair and kicks his feet up on his desk. “As I was saying,” he says, puffing from his cigar, “page 560. Read through the chapter. Write down some facts. Just look busy, alright?” He instructs.

Keeping her voice quiet so as to be masked by the sound of turning pages, Peggy leans in towards Pepper again. “What’s up with his hair?” She asks, eying the admittedly bizarre styling. 

“Don’t ask.” Clint says grimly, turning Peggy’s attention around. 

“Why not?” She asks. 

Clint lifts up his sweater and points to three long, thin scars across his ribs, perfectly straight and equidistant from one another. “I asked.” He says. 

Peggy winces.

“Peggy, this is Clint Barton,” Pepper says, “and Steve Rogers.” She adds, nodding to Steve.

Peggy offers them both a friendly smile.

“That doesn’t look like reading.” Professor Howlett says, narrowing his eyes at their group. They all bow their heads and begin to read.

“ _The Tri-Wizard Tournament is an honored event in the wizarding community, though that isn’t to say its name is not synonymous with controversy…_ ”

“What do you think, you volunteering, Rogers?” Clint whispers.

“You know, I was thinking about it,” Steve says, flipping through the pages of his book. He pauses on a picture of a young witch thrusting the Tri-Wizard Cup into the air, her triumphant grin captured for eternity. “It’d be a good way to end the year, wouldn’t it?”

Clint scoffs. “Pretty good way to die, too.” He says, picking up his book and shoving it in Steve’s face, forcing him to look at the picture of a wizard being carted to Saint Mungo’s.

Steve winces and pushes the book away. “I take it your name won’t be in the Goblet then?”

“Hell no,” Clint chuckles. “What about you, Pep?” He asks.

Pepper shakes her head. “I’m afraid not.” She says.

“Too scared?” Steve teases.

“Too busy.” Pepper amends. As if to prove her point, she begins jotting notes down on her parchment, brow furrowed in concentration. Beside her, Peggy laughs through her nose but doesn’t lift her eyes from her place on the page.

“And you, Carter?” Clint asks.

“What about me, Mr. Barton?”

“You sitting this one out?”

“And miss an opportunity to remind the wizarding world what women are capable of?” She shakes her head. “Not a chance.”

“You do that plenty already.” Steve says. “Though I guess a little refresher couldn’t hurt.”

Peggy looks up from her book and turns his way. She assesses him carefully, sharp brown eyes narrowing skeptically. “And what would you know about the capabilities of women, Mr. Rogers?”

Steve shrugs and fiddles with his quill. “Being raised by a single mother will teach you a thing or two about that.” He says. “I’ve learned that it’s up for a woman to decide for herself just what she’s capable of doing. 

Peggy’s icy stare thaws. “Oh, I like you.” She decides.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Pepper says dryly, “he’s gone on that Chaser the papers are always talking about.”

“I am not _gone_ on him!” Steve says defensively.

“And Thor’s not a natural blond.” Clint deadpans.

“You wouldn’t happen to be talking about Bucky Barnes now, would you?” Peggy asks. The guilty look on Steve’s face must say it all. “Oh, I adore Bucky!” She says, abandoning her book as she turns to join the conversation. “He and I spent a night in Nuremgard together a few summers ago.” She recalls. “Met up at a rally for equal wages for witches in The Ministry. I’m sure you heard about that one.”

“Sure,” Clint says, “Barnes’s bloody mug was all over the evening Prophet.”

“And wages were raised within the month,” Pepper adds.

“And I am _not_ gone on him!” Steve argues, though he might as well be speaking to a wall for all the good it does.

“Give it up, Steve. Even the paintings are talking.” Pepper says.

Steve blanches. He’d forgotten that not every pair of prying eyes at this school was human. “What are they saying?”

“Can’t speak for them all, but Sir Cadogan’s going around saying that he saw you sneaking up to the Astronomy Tower with _someone_ last night.”

Clint rolls up his parchment and swats Steve off the back of the head. “The Astronomy Tower, Steve? _Really?_ ”

“Nothing happened!” Steve cries, ducking the repeated swats.

“’ _Nothing_ ’ doesn’t happen in the Astronomy Tower!” Clint hisses.

“I assume from all this talking that you’ve finished the reading?” Professor Howlett interrupts, dropping his feet with a dull thud and moving to the chalkboard. “How’s about we go around the room and you tell me one thing you learned about the Tri-Wizard Tournament. That sound easy enough? Mr. Falsworth, you start.”

The thick, musty air starts getting to him after the third or fourth bullet. Steve’s mind begins to drift, wandering to last night and what really happened atop the Astronomy Tower.

> _They take the steps two at a time, Steve in front with Bucky hot on his heels. They’d just barely avoided being seen by Peeves, escaping via the spiraling stairwell leading to the Astronomy Tower. Steve can only hope that they’ll be alone at the top. The highest point in all of Hogwarts has a bit of a reputation for being the go-to spot for heat of the moment hookups, leading to its unofficial renaming as the Anatomy Tower. Steve tries not to think about that, or the implications of coming here with Bucky._
> 
> _Bucky trips up a step and Steve has to turn around and clamp a hand over his mouth to smother his laughter before it can give them away to the troublesome ghost below. Steve shushes him, straining his ear for the sound of jingling bells, a dead giveaway of Peeves’s presence._
> 
> _Bucky pulls Steve’s hand away and grins wolfishly. “What’s the matter, troublemaker? Scared of getting caught?” He teases in a whisper._
> 
> _Steve shoves him away, hiding his smile by turning his back and continuing up the stairs once he’s sure that Peeves won’t be joining them._
> 
> _“What’s up here anyway?” Bucky asks, hurrying to catch up._
> 
> _“You’ll see.” Steve says._
> 
> _“I don’t like surprises. Especially at high altitudes.” Bucky says, just to be difficult._
> 
> _Steve laughs and runs on ahead, bounding up the stairs. “You’ll like this one, I promise.” He calls over his shoulder._
> 
> _“Hey, wait up!”_
> 
> _Steve leaps up the last step, landing on the observation deck. Thankfully the only other presence here is that of the planetarium moving in perfect sync with the universe beyond. Steve watches Earth spin faithfully on its axis while he waits for Bucky to catch up._
> 
> _“Woah.”_
> 
> _“Do I keep my promises?” Steve asks, grinning from ear to ear._
> 
> _“You sure do,” Bucky says breathlessly. His eyes dart around the room, landing first on the planetarium, then on the painterly rendition of the starry sky on the ceiling above before finally coming to a rest on the view from the deck’s edge. His jaw drops a bit. “This can’t be real.”_
> 
> _Steve laughs. “Wanna get closer?”_
> 
> _Bucky’s eyes light up. “Can we?”_
> 
> _They scoot to the very edge of the deck. Bucky curls his legs up to his chest and Steve allows his to hang over the edge, swinging in the warm September breeze. The Great Lake stretches far beyond where their eyes can see, merging with the inky blackness of the sky. The water is smooth tonight, creating a mirror image of the stars above in its reflection._

“Rogers?”

> _“It’s beautiful up here.” Bucky whispers, resting his chin on his knees._
> 
> _Steve can’t take his eyes off the loose hairs tickling the side of Bucky’s face. He sits on his hands, resisting the urge to reach out and touch. “Yeah, it is.” He says softly, averting his gaze before he can be caught staring._

“Mr. Rogers?”

Steve is pulled into the present by a sharp pain in his shin. It takes him a moment to realize that Clint kicked him. It takes him another moment to realize that Professor Howlett is staring at him expectantly, eyebrows raised and lips pursed in a hard line around his cigar.

Steve shakes his head, dispelling the memory. “Could you repeat the question, sir?” He asks. 

Professor Howlett growls unhappily. “A fact, Mr. Rogers, about the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Something you found interesting?” He asks tersely.

“Oh, um,” Steve glances down at his parchment, “In 1792, The Tournament was discontinued due to the rising death toll of its champions.”

Professor Howlett blows a long puff of smoke through his nose. “A fact which Mr. Barton gave us two minutes ago.” He says dryly. “Five points from Gryffindor, Mr. Rogers. At least pretend to pay attention, would you? Next.”

Professor Howlett dismisses them at the end of the hour. Clint is off to Muggle Studies and Steve’s got Potions with Summers, something he’s not looking forward to given the events of earlier.

“Consider yourselves lucky,” Pepper says, “I’ve got Transfiguration.” She says miserably.

“What’s so bad about that?” Peggy asks.

“Darkhölme.” Clint, Pepper, and Steve moan in unison.

They split up at the staircases, Pepper taking Peggy and teaching her the ways of the stairs while Clint and Steve are swept away in the opposite direction. Clint entertains himself on their walk by sliding along the walls and peering around the corners in search of Bucky.

“Clear!” He calls, waving Steve around the corner.

“Would you cut that out?” Steve asks. “I’m not avoiding him.”

“Lighten up, Rogers. I haven’t had this much fun since we left Thor and Jane in Madame Pudifoot’s on Valentine’s Day.” He lays himself flat against the stone and peers around another corner. “Woah, hold up, not clear! I repeat, _not_ clear.” He says, throwing an arm across Steve’s chest.

Steve bats it away. “Ha, ha, it’s not as funny the second time around.” He says. “Matter of fact, it wasn’t funny the first time, either.”

“Steve, really!” Clint says, grabbing at the back of his sweater. “He’s right—,”

Steve turns the corner and runs into a solid body in a blood red coat. They both lose their footing and end up in a graceless heap on the floor, Steve on top with his face pressed into warm wool that still smells a bit like…pumpkin juice.

He looks up slowly and comes face to face with Bucky Barnes. “Well hey there, troublemaker.” He says with a grin that sends Steve’s heart racing quicker than it has any right to. “Funny running in to you.”

Steve blushes as red as Bucky’s coat. It’s going to be a long, _long_ year, indeed.


	4. Names in the Goblet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I CAN'T TAKE YOU PEOPLE ANY MORE. I CAN'T. MY HEART CAN NOT DO THIS. SERIOUSLY.
> 
> Once again, you've all AMAZED me with your kind words. This update took a bit longer than I'd hoped, but I'm excited to finally be getting it out to you. I'm hoping to finish the final chapter of my other AU in the meantime (seriously...I'M GOING TO DO IT. IT WILL BE DONE.) as well as the update for this chapter within the next week or so, if my schedule permits it.
> 
> ALSO a few people have noticed that the number of chapters has been set at 22 for this fic. That's a fairly certain number that I based on my rough notes and the basic breakdown of the story. If it changes, it means I either cut something or added something!!! So, yeah!
> 
> Also, there was a comment left by a friend named AC (hi, pal!!!) who asked if there could be little teasers of the next chapter included at the end of every update and I TOTALLY loved that idea. So check that out at the bottom in the author's notes if you wanna!!!!
> 
> AS ALWAYS your comments and criticisms are always always always welcome. I'm totally up to hearing any and all input towards this story. Hearing you guys respond is just as fun as writing it!!! SO YEAH come yell at me/with me if you want because that's what I am here for. (LITTLE SIDE STORY: I accidentally hit 'Delete Work' when checking my inbox on mobile and almost deleted this whole thing. Wouldn't that have been S O F U N N Y ? ? ? H A H A.)
> 
> SHUTTING UP NOW SO YOU CAN READ.

Bucky’s rushing, taking corners quickly and weaving between students. He’d woken up late this morning to the sound of frustrated mumbles and cracked an eye to find Tony sitting over him, scribbling long equations down the length of his right arm in black ink. 

“Oh good, you’re up.” He’d said. “Been working on a design for that broom of yours. I meant to ask, what model are you flying right now?”

Bucky continues to rub at the lingering ink stains on his skin that not even a twenty minute shower could do away with. He gives up and tugs the sleeve of his coat down. He’ll worry about it later. Preferably once he’s in class, hopefully on time.

Tony had sent him on his way to Muggle Studies with nothing more than a clap on the back and a, “ _Good luck, champ_.” No instruction. No nothing. All he’s got is his schedule on parchment and Abraham Erskine’s name printed beside the course. He’s still staring at the parchment in his hand, willing it to tell him where to go, when he turns the corner and gets flattened by another student.

Bucky looks down at the 150 pounds of adorable lying on his chest and grins. This isn’t the way he imagined he would get underneath Steve Rogers, but he’ll take what he can get. “Hey there, troublemaker.” He says. “Funny running in to you.” 

He watches Steve’s blush spread from his cheeks to his neck before disappearing beneath his collar. He wonders just how far down it goes, if Steve’s a full body blusher. Bucky can think of a few things off the top of his head that he can do to turn Steve red all over.

“I’m—God, Bucky, I’m sorry, I…” Steve stammers, lifting himself onto his elbows so he hovers above him, wide eyed and frantically apologetic.

“Told you so.” Clint says, coming around the corner to lean against the wall.

Bucky doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but apparently Steve does. “Shut it.” He mumbles, scrambling to his feet before offering Bucky a hand up. “Are you alright?” He asks.

Bucky takes his hand and allows Steve to pull him up. “Yeah, don’t worry about it,” He says, ignoring the crick in his spine and the bump he can feel forming on the back of his head.

“Where you headed in such a hurry?” Clint asks.

“Muggle Studies,” Bucky says, glancing at his parchment again. “Erskine’s class?”

Clint grins and leans off the wall. “You don’t say! Well, that makes us Muggle Studies Study Buddies!” He looks over to Steve, “Ain’t that great, Steve?”

Steve looks significantly paler than he did a moment ago. “Yeah, great…”

“Well, we’d better get going.” Clint says, heading down the corridor. “Come on, Barnes. I’ll tell you the real ins and outs of this place,” he says over his shoulder.

Bucky goes to follow, but Steve grabs him around the elbow and pulls him back. “Stay on his left side, alright?” He advises in a whisper. 

“What? Why?” Bucky asks, glancing back at Clint.

“Dumbass won’t wear his goddamn hearing aid. He thinks we don’t notice, but we do.” Steve says.

“He’s deaf?” Bucky asks.

“Half,” Steve corrects, “but he likes to play it up when he hears something he doesn’t want to. Just…stick to the left, alright?”

“Yeah, alright.” Bucky says. He glances down at the spot where Steve’s still got a grip on his elbow. “You gonna let me get to class or you gonna keep me here all day?” He teases.

Steve stares at him blankly for a moment before realizing his mistake. He lets go of Bucky like he’s been burnt. “Oh, right. You should definitely go. To class. Because class is…class is important,” he rambles. “Alright, I’m gonna,” he points vaguely in the opposite direction Clint went, “I’m gonna get going now.” He spins on his heel and walks away.

Bucky can’t help himself but to check out the view. He’ll have to send a letter of thanks to whoever made those pants. “Nice ass, troublemaker!” He calls after him.

Steve whips around, rosy red all over again. “What did you say?” He asks.

Bucky smirks. “I said have a nice _class_.” He lies.

“Barnes, come on!” Clint shouts from down the hall.

“Later, Steve.” Bucky says, turning away and finding Clint in the crowd. He resists the urge to turn back for one last look. By the time his resolve breaks and he allows himself a quick glance over his shoulder, Steve is already gone, lost to the tide of students.

***

“So anyway, that’s when Rhodey showed up with Fury, and Fury was the one who got the Squid to let Tony go.” Clint explains, finishing his story right as he and Bucky arrive at Erskine’s door. “But I’ll tell you, it was a close call. I thought Rogers was gonna faint.”

Bucky laughs, picturing the look on Steve’s face when Tony was plucked off the shore by a monstrous tentacle. Clint’s been retelling the story of their run in with the Giant Squid and Bucky’s starting to see why Tony was reluctant to tell the story himself. By the sounds of it, the entire fiasco was his fault.

They walk through Professor Erskine’s door and Bucky gets his first look at the inside of a Hogwarts classroom. It’s cozy, Bucky thinks; small and circular with a fireplace burning at the front of the room between two bookcases full to burst with trinkets and books. The desks are pushed close together and the chairs are mismatched and there are tapestries hanging from the ceiling above in different shades of scarlet and gold. Unlike the classrooms at Durmstrang, Professor Erskine’s classroom is well lit with natural sunlight that streams through the open windows, a far cry from the lantern-lit chambers Bucky’s used to. He can even smell the woodsy aroma of the Forbidden Forest in the air as a strong wind rustles the scarlet curtains.

There are pictures hung all around the room. It reminds Bucky of the portraits Pierce keeps in his office at Durmstrang, though all of his photos feature him with a death grip on the hands of uncomfortable looking politicians. Professor Erskine’s portraits couldn’t be more different. Every photo seems personal, like keepsakes he’s brought from home. One picture in particular catches his eye. In one of the largest frames, Steve, Clint, Sam, and Thor hoist a laughing Erskine up onto their shoulders. Erskine’s got a trophy in one hand and a Gryffindor pennant in the other. ‘ _2012 HOGWARTS QUIDDITCH CUP CHAMPIONS_ ,’ the frame’s engraving reads. Bucky smiles and watches Steve throw his head back with laughter over and over again, frozen in the moment.

“Hey, come on,” Clint says, jarring Bucky from his thoughts, “there’re still some seats left.”

The class is nearly full, but luckily there are still two seats left next to each other towards the back. Bucky goes to hang his bag over the chair to Clint’s right, but Steve’s warning echoes through his head at the last minute. “ _Stay on his left side, alright?_ ” 

“You mind if we switch?” Bucky asks quickly.

Clint freezes with his book bag half on, half off. His eyes narrow in suspicion. “Did Steve put you up to this?” He asks.

“Will you be mad at him if I say yes?” Bucky asks tentatively.

“God damn mother hen.” Clint grumbles under his breath. “Fine,” he bites, moving to the chair on the right.

Bucky sits down and pulls out his quill and parchment. “Why don’t you wear it?” He asks, aiming for casual rather than accusing.

Clint scowls and shakes his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I wouldn’t?” Bucky asks. He waves to Clint with his metal hand. “Hey, Bucky Barnes: amputee since childhood, nice to meet you.”

Clint’s expression softens. “I’m sorry. I just,” he pauses and tries again, “They look at you different, you know? When they see that you’re…” 

_Disabled_. Bucky can fill in the blank because he knows the feeling. He knows what it’s like to be under the scrutiny of every eye in the room. “What about your friends?” He asks.

“What about them?”

“They treat you any different?”

Clint scoffs. “No.”

“Then why’s it matter what anyone else thinks?” Bucky asks. “Think you’re gonna find you’re a lot happier once you stop caring what everyone else thinks.” His hand flexes subconsciously beneath the table.

Clint looks at him with a curious expression, almost like he’s judging him. After a few moments of scrutiny, he seems to pass the Barton Test. “You’re alright, Barnes.” He says.

Bucky grins. “I’ve been told as much.”

A few more students trickle through the door, the last of which is Thor. “My friends!” He greats them warmly as he settles down into the desk behind them.

“Say, Thor, you remember Bucky from last night, don’t you?” Clint asks.

“Sure,” Thor says brightly, “though I must say, I hardly recognize him without the war paint,” he adds with a sly grin.

Clint cackles and pounds his fist against his desk, laughing until he turns an unnatural shade of red. Bucky fails to see the humor. “It was _one_ time!” He snaps defensively, silently cursing the day he’d agreed to do those stupid promotional posters.

Thor leans forward and pats his shoulder consolingly. “There is no shame in a warrior’s paint, my friend. The men and women of my ancestry wore their paints proudly.” He says supportively.

“Yeah,” Clint says, wiping a tear from his cheek, “not to mention the wonders it did for your eyes.”

Thor and Clint both collapse in fits of laughter, leaning back in their seats, positively howling at the ceiling. Bucky crosses his arms and pouts. _Stupid. Fucking. Posters._

Bucky huffs and shrugs off his coat moodily, suddenly feeling too hot under the thick wool. He pushes the sleeves of his undershirt up to his elbow, frowning at the ink traces still visible on his skin. A shadow stretches over him, looming from behind. “Well, that’s interesting.”

Bucky looks up and immediately recognizes Professor Erskine from the pictures around the room. Bucky hadn’t heard him come in over the sound of Thor and Clint’s laughter. He looks a bit older than his former self, what with his greying hair and small, circular glasses, but he’s got the same bright eyes and warm smile, both of which are directed at Bucky. “Your arm,” Erskine clarifies.

Bucky runs a hand over the metallic plates of his left arm and shrugs. “Not really, it’s…”

“No, no,” Professor Erskine chuckles, “not that one, this one.” He says, lifting Bucky’s right arm up and inspecting the faded equations. “I see Mr. Stark’s got some ideas about your broom, eh?” Bucky nods and Professor Erskine smiles. “I knew his father, you know.” He says, pointing to a picture towards the front of the room featuring himself and Howard Stark, arm and arm in front of a cluttered lab table. “Tony is his spitting image.” Professor Erskine continues fondly, eyes lingering on Howard’s devious smirk. “Your broom is in capable hands, Mr. Barnes.” He concludes, laying Bucky’s arm back on the desk carefully.

He continues on towards the front of the class. There’s no desk or chair for him to put his worn leather satchel on, so he sets it down beside the fire and turns to address the class with another smile. “Good morning, I’m Professor Abraham Erskine. You may call me Professor Erskine if you so choose, though those in my House know that Abraham will work fine as well.”

Bucky glances around the room. The class seems to be a pretty even split between Gryffindors and Slytherins, though the only people he recognizes are Thor and Clint. 

“Before we get started, I must ask, who’s thinking of coming to the MBPBRC meeting this Friday?” Erskine asks.

Half the hands in the room shoot up, mostly Gryffindors with scattered Slytherins. Bucky frowns in confusion. “MBPBRC?” He asks Clint in a whisper.

“The Muggleborn Pure Blood Relations Club.” Clint explains, holding his hand high while Erskine takes a head count. “Steve came up with it in our Second Year. It helps Purebloods understand Muggle culture and it makes Muggleborns feel more at home. Plus, there’s free snacks.”

Bucky grins and puts his hand up as well. Of course Steve came up with an idea like that.

“Seventeen, excellent!” Erskine says. “I will see you all there! I’ll be trying my hand at making a Muggle confection known as the “Rice Crispy Treat”, he says, pronouncing the words carefully.

“Why would the rice be crispy?” Thor ponders. Bucky smothers a chuckle. If there were ever any doubt about Thor’s blood status before, he’s pretty sure it’s gone now.

“Now, regarding our subject matter for this course, I’d like to start the year with a study in Muggle literature and storytelling.” Erskine explains to the class. “I thought we might begin with one of my personal favorites,” he draws his wand and points it to the bookshelf, “The story of David and Goliath.”

A small, leather bound book flies off the shelf and into his waiting hand. He blows the dust off the cover and flips it to the page bookmarked by a thin golden ribbon. “I thought I might read it to you, if you don’t mind.” When no one objects, he adjusts his glasses and begins to read.

“ _A champion named Goliath, who was from Gath, came out of the Philistine camp. His height was six cubits and a span. He had a bronze helmet on his head and wore a coat of scale armor…_ ”

Bucky’s mind begins to drift. His eyes slide to the window and the immaculate view it offers of the clear blue sky, stained only by wisps of white clouds. He wonders what the view would look like from the Astronomy Tower, if the Great Lake looks like molten silver in the sunlight.

He pictures himself there, curled up on the edge of the observation deck, sunning himself like a cat in the light’s beam. On his left his pictures a pair of long legs swinging back and forth and Steve’s warm voice telling him stories like the ones he’d told last night. Stories about himself, his friends, Hogwarts… Bucky smiles, remembering their conversation atop the Tower.

> _“It’s beautiful up here.” Bucky says softly, resting his chin on his knees. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Steve’s hand resting in the space between them, an innocent invitation that Steve may not even be aware he’s giving. Bucky wants to reach out and touch, to rest his hand on top of Steve’s and admire the view in perfect silence, but just when he gets up the courage to try it, Steve shifts his hand away and tucks it beneath his thighs._
> 
> _“Yeah, it is.” Steve says. “No place like home, though.” Steve says after a moment._
> 
> _“Oh yeah, and where’s that?” Bucky asks, reclining back onto his elbows._
> 
> _“Brooklyn, born and raised.” Steve says. “Well, sort of raised. My ma moved us over here after I got my letter.”_
> 
> _“I remember Brooklyn,” Bucky says fondly._
> 
> _“You been?” Steve asks._
> 
> _“Lived there for a minute, can’t you tell?” Bucky asks, exaggerating the faint Brooklyn accent he hasn’t been able to shake since he was a kid._
> 
> _Steve throws his head back and laughs. “Can’t believe I didn’t notice it before.” He says._
> 
> _Bucky shrugs it off. “Nah, it only comes out when I’m mad.” He says. He neglects to mention the other times it slips out, when he’s turned on to High Hell and can’t help but run his mouth, spinning pure filth in between sighs and moans. Or when he flirts, when he wants so bad his very words are dripping with it._
> 
> _Silence falls for another minute and the warm wind blows Steve’s carefully styled bangs across his forehead. Bucky wonders what it’d be like to drop kisses that soft across the skin… “What about you?”_
> 
> _“What about me?” Bucky asks with a start._
> 
> _“Where’s home for you?”_
> 
> _Bucky shrugs. “We were here and there, you know?” He says, thinking of the places he and his family had bounced to for ten years. His father’s job as an Auror kept them in nice houses, beautiful houses, even, but it couldn’t give them a home. The closest thing he’d ever known to home was when he and Rebecca would squeeze between their parents’ bodies and doze in their warmth. “Brooklyn for a couple years. Think I was seven when we left for Germany. Then it was France. Russia, India for a bit, back to Germany. And that’s where,” he pauses, swallowing thickly and backtracking, “and then Romania,” he says instead._
> 
> _“And what’s that like? Romania?”_
> 
> _“Depends on the season.” Bucky jokes, though it’s not really much of a joke at all. “It’s cold when I come back for Christmas, same as Durmstrang. It’s just…cold.” He says. “Pretty nice in the summer, though, but there’s nothin’ like this up there.” He adds, nodding to the view._
> 
> _“Guess you’d better make the most of it while you can then, huh?” Steve asks._
> 
> _Bucky grins, giving Steve a slow once over that the other boy is none the wiser to. “I intend to.”_

“Mr. Barnes?”

Bucky blinks a few times before realizing that all eyes are on him. “Sorry, sir?” 

Erskine smiles kindly. “I asked your thoughts on the story. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to catch you off-guard. I’ll give you a moment to think…”

“No, no, it’s alright, um…” Bucky sits up in his seat and struggles to remember whatever details he can about David and Goliath. The last time he’d heard it; his mother had been sitting on the edge of his bed, soothing him to sleep with the tale of a tiny boy fighting a mighty giant. “I think…” his face twists up in thought, “I think it’s about time that the little guys got some recognition. The hero isn’t in the body, it’s in the heart.” He says, quoting what his mother used to tell him when she’d reach the end of the story and lean in to kiss him good night.

Erskine nods in agreement, smiling. “To the little guys.” He says, toasting an invisible drink in the air. “Who else?” He asks, turning to the other side of the room.

Bucky relaxes back into his chair with a heavy sigh. Daydreaming. He’d been caught _daydreaming_. All he can do is thank his lucky stars that Natasha isn’t around, otherwise she’d never let him live it down. Even so, Clint’s staring at him with a funny glint in his eye like he knows what’s going on. Bucky refuses to look at him, instead focusing on the fire still roaring in the fireplace ahead.

***

“Now, you remember where you’re going?” Clint asks after class.

Bucky scrunches his nose and tries to remember the instructions Clint had given him on how to get back to the dungeons. “Take the spinning stairs down two flights, pass the statue of Wilfred the Wistful, then go down until I can’t go down anymore.” He recites.

Clint claps him on the back. “You got it. I’d show you myself, but I’ve got a date with my mattress and I hate to keep a lady waiting.” He says before turning away, joining the frenzied bustle of students in the corridor.

“Alright,” Bucky says to himself, “just keeping going down ‘til you can’t anymore,” he repeats. “Easy.”

As it turns out, it’s not so easy. By the time he beats the spinning stairs and makes it back to blessed immobile ground, he’s more than a little dizzy. He staggers past the statue of Wilfred the Wistful, not seeing the leg that swings out to trip him until it’s too late. 

“ _Oof!_ ” He hits the floor for the second time this morning, wincing at the shooting pain in his back. Unfortunately, Steve isn’t there to sweeten the deal this time.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Bucky looks up to see Natasha stepping out from behind the statue. 

“I have not.” He says.

“Is this about the dick thing?” Natasha asks, offering him a hand. “It totally is, isn’t it?”

Bucky smacks her hand away and comes to stand on his own, dusting off the knees of his pants. “I told you, I’m not avoiding you.” He says.

“How else was I supposed to let him know you play both sides?” Natasha asks.

Bucky glares at her. “Think I let the whole world know, Nat. It made a couple headlines, you might have heard.” He picks up his bag and throws it over his shoulder, already turning to leave.

“Where are you headed?” Natasha asks, falling in to step beside him.

“Dorms.” He says shortly.

“Oh, great, me too.” She says cheerily. “Now you’ve got time to tell me what you and the American Dream did last night.”

“Nothing, Natasha, for the love of Merlin.” Bucky growls.

“You’re glowing.” She says, eying him suspiciously. “Come on, fess up. How was it?” Bucky walks faster, trying to shake her. It’s no use. “The silent treatment, huh? Alright, fine.” She holds her hands out in front of her, leaving a small distance between them. “Just tell me when, alright? You can keep the rest of the dirty details to yourself.” Bucky watches her hands move further and further apart. “Anytime you wanna stop me…” Bucky rolls his eyes, but her hands keep moving. “Oh my God…How are you even walking right now?”

“Nothing happened!” Bucky shouts, turning a few heads by doing so.

Natasha drops her hands and pouts. “Well why not?”

Bucky looks scandalized. “ _Because_ , Nat, despite what the papers tell you, I’m not that easy. You of all people ought to know.”

Natasha laughs humorlessly. “Do I ever.” She grumbles.

They’re able to make it back to the Slytherin common room without another mention of Steve. Bucky’s just begun to think that the topic has mercifully dropped itself when he spots Rebecca curled up on one of the luxurious leather couches in front of the fireplace.

She looks up from the book in her hands and grins, tossing the book aside carelessly. “Well what happened?” She asks, leaning over the back of the couch excitedly.

“Keep it down, would you?” Bucky hisses, glancing around the empty common room. “How many times am I gonna have to say it?” He whines, running a hand over his face. “Nothing. Happened.”

Rebecca slouches and pouts. “Lame,” she says, sliding back down onto the couch.

“Well, while you were doing ‘ _nothing_ ’,” Natasha says, stressing the word like she still doesn’t quite believe it, “I was doing some research.” She crosses the room and joins Rebecca on the couch before opening her book bag and reaching inside.

“I got a feeling that this “research” has nothing to do with school.” Bucky says, setting his own bag down beside the roaring fire and coming to sit cross-legged in front of them on the floor.

“And you’d be right,” Natasha says, pulling out a worn file three inches thick labeled ‘ _ROGERS, STEVEN GRANT_ ’ in bold red ink.

“Where do you get that?” Bucky asks suspiciously.

“Not important.” Natasha says evasively, flipping the file open and picking up the first page. “Did you know he’s a Cancer?”

Bucky arches a brow. “They keep that kinda stuff in there?”

“No, but they do keep birthdays.” She says. “Can you believe the American Dream was born on the Fourth of July?”

“I can, actually,” Bucky says. “You ought to put that back where you found it.” He adds reproachfully.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Rebecca asks, reaching into the pile herself. “Check it out,” she says, plucking a paper from the bunch, “he’s on the Quidditch team!”

“What’s he play?” Natasha asks.

Rebecca grins, “Keeper.”

Natasha smirks. “What’s that thing you said about Keepers, James?” She asks slyly.

Bucky scowls and snatches the paper from Rebecca’s hand. He glances down the roster and sure enough Steve’s name is there, along with his cumulative statistics for the past six years. “He’s good.” Bucky says, reading the numbers. “He’s amazing, actually.” Bucky says.

“Try not to drool,” Rebecca teases, stealing the paper back.

“What else you got in there?” Bucky asks, reaching for the file himself.

Natasha slaps his hand away without looking. “Did you know he’s fluent in French?”

“No, I didn’t,” Bucky says, rubbing the back of his hand with a pout.

“What are all those at the bottom?” Rebecca asks, pointing to the yellow sheets of parchment clipped together at the bottom of the file.

Natasha slides them out and leafs through them quickly. “Well I’ll be damned,” she says slowly, “they’re incident reports.

“All of them?” Bucky asks, ogling the impressive stack.

“Every last one,” she says, sounding a little awed herself.

“Lemme see those,” Bucky says. This time Natasha obliges, handing them over immediately. He reads them one by one. Assault. Misuse of Magic. Disruption of Class. Graffiti. Destruction of School Property. “ _Arson_?” He whispers, reading over the brief synopsis of Steve’s transgression.

> _On September 17th of 2011, the student,_ [ **ROGERS, STEVEN GRANT** ] _, used the prohibited charm_ [ **INCENDIO** ] _on school grounds, causing irreparable damage to school resources. When asked to provide reason for their actions, the student,_ [ **ROGERS** ] _, claimed that they committed this offense knowing that the destruction of said resources would result in their immediate replacement with higher quality editions at the expense of The Ministry in accordance with the Amendment made to Section VIII in the Code of Magical Education. [“It falls upon The Ministry to replace any and all educational resources lost to disasters, accidents, or otherwise unpredictable events (I.E.: Flooding, landslides, explosions, fires, and instances of the like.)”] The authoritative figure overseeing this matter,_ [ **FURY, NICHOLAS JOSEPH** ] _, has chosen not to take disciplinary actions against the accused._  
> 

“Gryffindor, my ass.” Bucky says. Setting fire to old, outdated materials in order to get new ones on the Ministry’s dime? That’s a Slytherin move if he’s ever seen one.

“But look at this,” Rebecca says, pulling out a photo of Steve handing out plates at a bake sale. “He raised money to buy new cauldrons for the school,” she says, reading the information on the back of the picture.

“And he tutors First Years in History of Magic.” Natasha adds, pulling up a list of Steve’s extracurricular activities. “He’s also the Former president and founder of the Muggleborn Pure Blood Relations Club, Captain of the Quidditch Team, former Gryffindor Prefect, Head of the Student Union, and a member of the Committee of Young Academics for the Promotion of Witch’s Rights.” She breathes a deep sigh and sets the paper down. “Shit, James. If you don’t date him, I just might have to.”

Bucky scowls. He’s about to make a smart retort when Tony’s voice cuts him off. “What are we doing over here?” 

The three of them scramble to get Steve’s file back in order. Natasha just manages to snap the folder shut and slide it into her bag before Tony comes around the couch, still wearing his pajamas from this morning. “Why was I not invited?” He asks with mock offense.

“Thought you might still be working on my broom.” Bucky lies quickly. “How’s it coming?”

“Ought to be ready for the Finals. I was thinking of calling it The Winter Soldier: 2.0.” Tony says thoughtfully.

“How long’d it take you to come up with that one?” Rebecca dead pans.

Tony throws a fleeting glare at her before turning back to Bucky. “Gotta say, those Russians knows their brooms. Wasn’t much improvement I could make to the stability factor, but I managed to get the speed up to 130 and I added an anti-freezing element. That ought to tack about two hundred feet on your max altitude.”

“Wow,” Bucky says, genuinely impressed, “thanks, Tony.”

Tony waves him off. “It’s nothing,” he says, somehow managing to be smug and humble at the same time. “So, what did I miss? I assume Hogwarts fell to shambles in my absence?”

“Not quite,” Bucky says.

“Hm,” Tony hums, pursing his lips. “What time is it? Did I miss lunch?” He asks.

“Half past twelve,” Bucky says.

“Oh, good.” He says, sounding pleasantly surprised. “Come on,” he says, heading for the door, “if we hurry, we can still catch the guys.”

“Don’t you want to change?” Natasha suggests.

Tony glances down at his ratty t-shirt and boxer shorts. “Maybe,” he says. He pulls the fabric up to his nose and sniffs at it, “Definitely.” He amends.

They wait for him while he changes. He returns in his Hogwarts uniform, near pristine save for the tie hanging loose around his neck. “Shall we?” He asks, gesturing to the door.

The Great Hall is packed when they arrive, buzzing with conversation. Sunlight streams through the windows, turning the stone walls gold. Every table is full to capacity as students from every house mingle at one another’s tables.

Miraculously they’re able to find their friends quickly, seated in almost the exact same spot as last night. As they approach the table, Bucky wonders if they haven’t reserved the spot especially for themselves. The group is almost the same as last night, too, save for one new face and Thor’s absence.

“Hope you saved me some treacle tart,” Tony says, squeezing in to the non-existent space between Rhodey and a boy in a Ravenclaw tie that Bucky hasn’t met yet. “Seeing as how _someone_ saw to it that I couldn’t have any last night.”

Bucky wants to point out that it was just as much Tony’s fault as it were his own, but he thinks better of it after realizing that it would involve telling Tony that _maybe_ mentioning Steve’s frankly unfair good looks might have saved his beloved treacle tart.

“Room for a few more?” Natasha asks.

Clint shoves Sam to the ground. “Absolutely, got room for one right here,” he says, patting the open seat to his right. From where he’s standing, Bucky can see a small white hearing aid tucked into Clint’s ear.

“Yeah,” Sam grunts from the floor, “not like I was using it or anything.”

Natasha takes the seat but allows Sam to squeeze between her and Steve, leaving Rebecca and Bucky in the open space opposite Steve next to the boy in the Ravenclaw tie. 

Whoever he is, he’s nursing a large cup of coffee, staring irritably over the rim of the mug with bloodshot eyes. He sets his mug down and continues to glower, itching irritably at his skin like he’s about to up and crawl out of it. There are dark bags under his eyes and faint scarring around his cheeks. They’re jagged and thin, almost like claw marks.

Bucky figures now’s as good a time as any to make an introduction. “Hey. Name’s Bucky.” He says, offering the boy his hand.

“No shit,” the boy growls. He takes another long sip from his mug, ignoring Bucky’s hand completely.

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. Sure, he’s well aware that his reputation precedes him, but it’s not usually met with this much hostility. He glances across the table at Steve and finds that he looks about as surprised as Bucky feels.

“Jeez, Bruce, who pissed in your cauldron this morning?” Clint asks.

“It’s his time of the month.” Tony says with a smirk. He ruffles Bruce’s hair and points to Bruce’s untouched plate. “Come on, buddy. _Wolf_ that down. Got a big night coming up!”

Bruce glares at Tony but ultimately obliges him, taking small bites out of the corner of his toast before returning to his coffee. Bucky tries not to take Bruce’s bad mood to heart.

“Say, Barnes, we were just talking about you. You seen the papers yet?” Clint asks, holding up a copy of this morning’s Prophet. “You made the front page!”

‘ **DURMSTRANG’S DARLING DELINQUINT TO BECOME TRI-WIZARD CONTENDER?** ’ the headline reads, accompanied by a photo of him smirking at the camera with blood trickling down his nose. Of all his many mug shots, they at least picked his favorite one. It almost makes up for the fact that the entire article pins Bucky as Durmstrang’s obvious front runner for the Tournament.

His heart seizes up in his chest and plummets. He glances at the High Table. Headmaster Pierce sits on Fury’s left, dressed in another ostentatious suit paired with a fur cloak that looks like it would smell like mothballs and stale air. He’s got his own copy of The Prophet laid out before him and he’s reading it with a small, satisfied smile that makes Bucky’s blood boil. Bucky wouldn’t be surprised to find that Pierce had written the article himself.

Tony reaches across the table and snatches the paper from Clint. “It is true, Barnes? Have you had a change of heart? Gonna buy Pierce a few cloaks with those 25,000 G’s?”

“Hell no,” Bucky says, meeting Pierce’s eyes from across the room when the man looks up from the paper. Pierce smiles, nodding to Bucky like a proud parent would. Bucky shakes his head and turns away.

Tony _tsks_ mournfully. “Right, right, I forgot. You have those things…those annoying things…what are they called again?”

“Morals,” Rhodey supplies helpfully.

“Those.” Tony says, handing the paper across the table to Natasha’s waiting hand.

Her green eyes fly across the page. “Oh, come on, who writes this garbage?” She laughs. “’ _Barnes, seventeen and in his final year at Durmstrang Institute, is best known for being the blue-eyed bad boy taped to the walls of every Witch’s bedroom. He’s tragic, temperamental, and troublesome, but will we be adding Tri-Wizard Champion to the long list of things that we call everyone’s favorite Chaser?_ ’“ She recites. She snorts and crumples the paper up into a ball. “I don’t know what’s worse, the alliteration or the thought of someone hanging pictures of you on their wall.”

“Seriously, who would wanna look at your ugly mug?” Rebecca asks.

Steve chokes on his sip of pumpkin juice.

“Thor mentioned putting his name in this morning,” Rhodey says. “Something about how his family’s been competing in this thing for eons.”

“Where is Malibu Ken anyhow?” Tony asks.

“Where do you think?” Sam asks sarcastically.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Astronomy tower?”

Clint snorts. “Yeah, says it’s a ‘full moon’ and he wanted to go ‘check it out’.”

Bruce fidgets uncomfortably. “Sounds like an excuse to go moon over Foster to me.” He says. His voice is rough and low, almost like a growl.

“Has anybody volunteered yet?” Rebecca asks.

“No…” Clint says slowly, standing up and craning his neck. “But it looks like Carter’s about to.”

Bucky hadn’t noticed until now but the Hall seems to have gone entirely silent as Peggy makes her way to the Goblet. It hasn’t moved since last night. It’s an intimidating presence at the front and center of the room, commanding attention as its flames continue to spit and dance. There’s a faint white line around the base like a fine mist. Bucky figures that’s the age like that keeps anyone not of wizarding age from entering the Tournament.

Bucky’s eyes follow Peggy across the Hall as she strides confidently towards the Goblet with a small piece of powder blue parchment clutched in her hand. She crosses the age line and reaches up, offering her name to the flames. They swallow the parchment up, roaring skyward with a hissing crackle. The corner of her red lips twitch as she steps away and applause breaks out around the room.

“ALRIGHT, ENGLISH!” A blonde with banana curls cheers from the Hufflepuff table. She, Sharon, and Pepper are all standing on their benches, shouting at the top of their lungs. Headmistress Hill looks extremely pleased from her perch on Headmaster Fury’s right. She offers Peggy a pointed nod as she passes on her way back to her table.

“Alright, who’s up next?” Clint asks, glancing around the table. “Rhodey?”

“I’m not letting a glorified cup decide whether or not I survive my Seventh Year or not.” Rhodey says. Across the Hall, the Goblet’s flames roar wildly as if it could hear him. He glances over his shoulder at the vengeful flames and winces. “Yeah, count me out.”

“I’ll have to do the _responsible_ ,” Tony pretends to choke on the word, “thing here and agree with Rhodey.”

“Can someone get that in writing?” Steve teases.

Tony forces a laugh and points an accusatory finger at him. “Don’t see your name in that Goblet, Rogers. What’s the matter? Burned up all that courage and nerve and whatever other crap your house is built on?”

“Give me a quill, Stark.” Steve says; narrowing his eyes in a challenge.

“You’re serious?” Sam asks.

“Give me a quill.” Steve repeats, holding out his hand expectantly.

Tony pulls one out of his pocket and hands it over. Steve immediately sets about pulling a sheet of parchment from his pocket.

“Steve, man, you might want to think this one through a little more.” Sam says nervously.

“What’s there to think about?” Steve asks, jotting his name down on the parchment. “There’s no telling that the Goblet’ll choose me. Even if it does, there’s no telling whether or not I’ll win. But if I do, you best believe that money’s going towards a good cause.”

Rebecca kicks him under the table. Bucky kicks her right back. “Oh yeah, like what?” She asks.

“Heard about a school for House Elves that just opened up.” Steve says, “might be a good investment.” He meets Bucky’s eyes as he stands up from the table and tosses Tony’s quill back at him. “Here goes nothing.”

Sam turns and watches him go with wide eyes. “He’s not serious, is he?”

“Looks pretty serious to me,” Clint says.

“You _had_ to say something, didn’t you?” Sam says accusingly, glaring at Tony.

Tony throws his hands up in disbelief. “How is his death wish _my_ fault?”

Bucky watches Steve make the same walk to the Goblet that Peggy did. He, too, crosses the age line and offers his name to the Goblet. He’s barely even got the parchment over the basin before the flames reach up to take it, burning it to ash immediately. Professor Erskine stands up immediately at the High Table, leading the applause for Steve.

“THATTA BOY, ROGERS!” Clint shouts over the deafening celebration of every Hogwarts student.

When Steve comes back to the table he’s flushed and grinning and there are adorable crinkles by his eyes from smiling so hard. He looks smug and self-satisfied and the only thing that’s keeping Bucky from climbing across this table right now is the hundreds of other eyes in the Great Hall. Even so, he has to white knuckle the edge of the table to keep himself from doing anything stupid.

“Bruce, buddy, you ought to get in there.” Tony says, ribbing Bruce gently.

Bruce smiles weakly. “I don’t think I’ve got the right…temperament for the Tournament.” He says.

“You’re tip-toeing, big man, you need to _strut_.” Tony advises, though his words seem moot point when he shovels his face with treacle tart a moment later.

“Come on, Durmstrang, you’re up.” Clint says, tossing a piece of broccoli at Bucky.

“No way,” He says. “There’ll be plenty of other names in that cup. I’m sure the Goblet won’t miss mine.”

“Come on, who else is gonna volunteer?” Clint asks.

“I will.” Natasha says suddenly.

“What?” Clint and Bucky blurt in unison.

She reaches into her bag and pulls out her quill and parchment, hastily scribbling her name. “I’ll volunteer,” she says, betraying no nerves even though Bucky can see her hand shaking. “It’ll be fun.” She says.

Bucky reaches across the table and catches her wrist, pausing her hand over the ‘ _o_ ’ in ‘ _Romanov_ ’. “What are you doing?”

She gives him a meaningful stare. They’ve perfected the art of silent communication over the years given Durmstrang’s strict rules on conversation in the classroom and the meaning of her look is clear as day. “I’m bettering your odds.” She says without speaking.

Bucky lets her go reluctantly. She finishes writing her name with a flourish and stands from the table, tossing her fiery red hair behind her as she walks away.

Clint stands to applaud when the Goblet swallows her name but quickly sits when he realizes he’s the only one. Bucky’s too pissed to cheer, Rebecca’s too stunned, and the murderous look on Pierce’s face speaks volumes of the fate that will befall any Durmstrang student that so much as whispers her name.

“He’s not going to like that,” Rebecca whispers.

“No, he’s not.” Bucky says gravely.

“Why?” Clint asks. “Why isn’t anyone cheering?”

Natasha returns before he can answer. She’s pale as a sheet and her hands are still trembling, though she hides them in the sleeves of her coat before anyone but Bucky can notice.

 _Because it’s supposed to be me_ , Bucky thinks. He steels his nerves and looks back to the High Table. Pierce’s eyes are unwavering, boring holes into the side of Natasha’s head. If looks could kill…

Pierce’s cold grey eyes flick to Bucky. There’s a threat and a promise in that stare. It seems that Pierce, too, is well versed in conveying a silent message.

“ _You’re going in._ ” It says cold and firm. Like an order.

Bucky squares his jaw, challenging him with a glare of his own. “ _You won’t like what happens if I do._ ”

Pierce’s aged face contorts into the serpentine grin that turns Bucky’s guts to stone. He reaches for his glass and raises it to Bucky, toasting him. _Mocking_ him.

“You alright?”

Steve’s voice brings his attention back around. He looks across the table and meets Steve’s eyes, infinitely kinder than Pierce’s, but beneath the kindness there’s concern, worry.

“Fine,” Bucky says with a fleeting smile.

Neither he nor Natasha or Rebecca touches their food again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CHAPTER FIVE: The Goblet's Decision**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> “ _STEVEN GRANT ROGERS_ ,” his mother’s voice shrieks, “DID YOU PUT YOUR NAME IN THE GOBLET OF FIRE?” Steve tries frantically to catch the Howler and force it shut, but to no avail. It slips between his fingers and continues to attract attention from all corners of the Hall. “IF I DIDN’T THINK YOU WERE DETERMINED TO KILL YOURSELF, I’D COME DOWN THERE AND DO IT MYSELF!”
> 
> Steve rounds on his suddenly sheepish looking friends. “Who told her?” He growls.
> 
> Sam winces. “Well, you see, it was a group decision to—”
> 
> “It was Sam’s idea!” Clint blurts. 
> 
> “Clint, what the Hell?” Sam shouts.
> 
> “ _Sam?_ ” Steve cries, shocked and indignant. 
> 
> “DOES THIS HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH THAT BOY YOU LIKE?” Steve blanches and redoubles his efforts at catching the Howler, refusing to so much as glance at Bucky for fear of the look on his face. “DID YOU THINK YOU’D PULL THE WOOL OVER YOUR DEAR MOTHER’S EYES WHILE YOU RISKED YOUR LIFE TRYING TO IMPRESS HIM?” 
> 
> “This just gets better and better.” Clint chuckles.


	5. The Goblet's Decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY. OKAY. I SWEAR I CAN EXPLAIN WHY THIS WAS SO LATE:
> 
> Guess who didn’t realize last week was Mid-Term week until she sat down in her 8:30 and got slaPPED IN THE FACE WITH A BIO MID-TERM. THIS GUY. OH YEAH. So after a week of frantic cramming and general pathetic crying, I RETURN!!!
> 
> Okay, so since you guys have been so amazing and given me so much support and positive feedback, I’ve decided to clue you in on where this story is headed! I made a quick little Table of Contents, if you will. Anything marked with a little [*] is where this story is gonna earn its E rating (except for Chapter 10, where they just stop being stupid and kiss already SHEESH) and as you can see, it’s gonna earn it. A lot. Multiple times. In multiple places. I might even throw in more to chapters I haven’t labeled. Who knows. (ALSO, this is sort of a tag-as-I-go story. Basically the things I can guarantee at this point is a whole truck load of kink discovery on Steve's part and a whole lot of dirty talk from Bucky.) Anyway, here they are:
> 
> STEVE ROGERS AND THE TRI-WIZARD TOURNAMENT:  
> I. The Tri-Wizard Tournament  
> II. The Students of Durmstrang  
> III. First Day of Classes  
> IV. Names in the Goblet  
> V. The Goblet’s Decision  
> VI. An Interview with Everhart  
> VII. Quidditch Try-Outs  
> VIII. The Forbidden Forest  
> IX. The First Task  
> X. Hogsmede [*]  
> XI. The Clue [*]  
> XII. Everhart’s Story  
> XIII. The Second Task  
> XIV. The Yule Ball [*]  
> XV. The Quidditch Cup [*]  
> XVI. Parents’ Weekend  
> XVII. The Third Task  
> XVIII. The Winner’s Feast [*]  
> XIX. Going Home  
> XX. Epilogue (10 Years Later)
> 
> You also might have noticed I dropped two chapters and that’s because they sort of got absorbed into other chapters. Each chapter is shaping up to be somewhere in the 4k-8k range, so I’m definitely looking at a bigger fic than I’d bargained for, but it’s SO FUN and you guys’ response has made this an amazing adventure! I love love LOVE hearing what you think and getting your reactions you guys are all SO AMAZING and I really do try to keep up with everyone’s comments so LET ME HAVE THEM because I LOVE YOU GUYS.
> 
> OKAY: ENOUGH CHATTER. THE CHAPTER!!! FORGIVE ME FOR ANY MISTAKES BECAUSE I EDITED THIS SO SO SO FAST. (Oh, and check out the Chapter 6 preview at the bottom, if you’d like!!!)

On Wednesday, Clint pauses while quizzing him on the ingredients of Liquid Luck to ask if he’s, “ _gotten lucky with Bucky yet? _” On Thursday, Sam writes ‘ _ASK HIM OUT_ ’ in his peas at dinner and Steve has no choice but to charm Sam’s plate into his lap seconds before Bucky can glance over and see the message.__

__Worse yet is on Friday when Tony tosses a paper air plane across the room during Defense Against the Dark Arts, aiming it so it lands perfectly on Steve’s desk. He no sooner smoothes out the parchment than Tony’s hand shoots into the air._ _

__“Professor Phillips, Steve’s got a note!” He tattles._ _

__As a stony faced veteran of the last wizarding war, you’d be hard pressed to find someone more qualified to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts than Professor Chester Phillips. As for teaching said skill to children, well, a rock would probably be more nurturing. He’s grumpy, stern, and takes house points like it’s what he was put on this green Earth to do._ _

__Phillips calls him out, demanding that Steve read his note aloud in front of the class. Steve looks from Phillips’s waiting expression to the paper and reads it silently to himself._ _

____

“RUMOR HAS IT HIS ARM VIBRATES. YOU SHOULD ASK. OR FIND OUT IN MORE INTERESTING WAYS.”

Steve looks from the note to Tony, trying to convey murder with a simple glare. He can’t read this aloud, not when Bucky’s looking right at him from his seat beside Tony.

In an act born of pure self-preservation, he lies. He clears his throat and pretends to read, “Tony said, ‘Professor Phillips looks a bit like a toad.’”

Professor Phillips swells like a toad and turns on Tony. “That’ll be ten points from Slytherin, Mr. Stark,” he barks before turning back to his chalkboard.

A second paper airplane lands on Steve’s desk minutes later. This time he slides it beneath his desk before opening it.

“ASSHOLE.”

His only reprieve from their incessant badgering comes from the stolen hours he spends alone at the edge of the Lake, shrouded from sight by the thick roots and low, drooping branches of a wilting willow. It’s here that he hides away now, tucked amongst the gnarled roots with his sketchbook open in his lap, idly tracing rough sketches of an indefinable face on the page. He gives the figure a strong jaw and loose tendrils of long, dark hair.

Steve sighs and flips to a new page, promising to stray away from faces and focus on the view in front of him. He’s just begun to sketch the horizon when he’s distracted by the heavy trample of a dozen footfalls headed his way. Confused, he sets his sketchbook aside and stands, moving to peek around the wide expanse of the willow’s trunk to see whose coming.

Bucky’s on him before he gets the chance. He swings around the trunk with speed and nearly knocks Steve flat. For a moment they stare at each other, slack jawed and wide eyed like they’ve never seen the other before.

“Come on, I think he went this way!” A feminine voice cries.

The heavy footfalls grow closer and Bucky cusses softly under his breath. He backs Steve into a deep niche in the willow’s bark before crowding close against him.

“What are you—“ but that’s all Steve manages to say before Bucky clamps a hand over his mouth, shushing him gently with finger pressed to his lips. Steve nods minutely and tries not to think too hard about all the places he and Bucky are touching.

Bucky tilts his head to listen as the footsteps grow louder before passing by and fading away as the girls run past. He waits until long after their giggles and chatter have faded into the sounds of the forest before dropping his hand. He looks equal parts grateful and sheepish as he steps away. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes, “couldn’t shake ‘em.”

“Poor you,” Steve says dryly.

Bucky laughs. “They only want me for my body,” he says with mock offense.

Steve tries very hard not to look at said body, unfairly on display in a tight black t-shirt with the Durmstrang crest sewn over his chest. Instead he looks at the ground, far less interesting but also less likely to be offended by his staring.

“So what brings you down here, huh?” Bucky asks, settling down amongst the roots, making himself right at home. “There a group of girls trailin’ you I ought to worry about?” 

Steve snorts, belatedly realizing how unattractive the sound is. “Oh yeah, whole pack of them. You just missed them, actually.”

“I’d believe it.” Bucky says, propping his legs up and reclining leisurely. “Best Keeper in Hogwarts history? It’s a wonder you can keep ‘em off you.”

“Now where did you hear about that?” Steve asks, though he thinks he already has some idea. He’d seen Phil Coulson trailing Bucky around the other day, practically treading on the older boy’s heels while he recounted Bucky’s performance in the semi-finals play by play, complete with personal commentary and sound effects.

Bucky fidgets a bit and glances away. “Heard it around.”

Steve laughs. “Well, I’m far from the best. You probably heard that in the same place they say your arm vibrates.” He says.

Bucky’s head pops off the root it had been resting against. “Is that what they’re saying?” He asks incredulously. “No wonder they’re chasing me,” he mutters, dropping his head heavily.

Steve picks up his sketchbook and resituates himself, leaning back against the willow’s trunk and trying to get back into the landscape. It’s hopeless. The light of Sunday evening’s setting sun filters through the leaves and dances across Bucky’s skin as gentle winds sway the branches above. It’s distracting to say the least. Steve huffs and turns the page.

Bucky turns to him and squints. “How come you didn’t show me this place before, huh?” He asks, dipping his fingers in the nearby water and running them across the smooth surface.

“Because I’ve never shown it to anybody,” Steve says without thinking, still immersed in capturing the way the shadows flit across Bucky’s face.

“Oh,” Bucky says. He pulls his hand back from the water and hastily dries it on his pants while shifting to get up. “Right, sorry. Sort of invited myself, huh? I’ll just—”

“No!” Steve blurts. “No, you’re fine! You can stay,” he says, “if you want to,” he adds as an afterthought.

“You sure?” Bucky asks. 

Steve shrugs. “So long as you promise not to tell the guys where I hide,” he says, eying Bucky carefully. 

Bucky grins and falls back against the roots. “I swear, your secret’s safe with me,” he says, crossing his heart with his fingers.

They spend hours that way, hidden from meddling friends and love struck fans. Bucky tells him about his first week at Hogwarts, about how he loves Transfiguration but loathes Darkhölme and how he’s already finished three of the assigned reading books for Erskine’s class. He plays idly with the water while he talks and Steve draws him, glancing up every once in a while to just watch. While Bucky’s left hand dips in and out of the water, gleaming silver beneath the surface, the right is curled up behind his neck, resting between his head and the roots.

At some point Bucky’s eyes slip shut and the rise and fall of his chest becomes steady, though his fingers continue to stroke the water. Steve’s thankful. It allows him to look without fear of being caught.

Steve returns to the dorms well after sundown with his sketchbook filled from cover to cover with half-finished sketches of Bucky Barnes: the lazy curve of his sleepy smile, the cocky tilt of his jaw, the way his eyes droop while he stares at the skies above. By the time he slips into the Seventh Year dorm, everyone is asleep but Sam, who’s got his wand between his teeth, lighting the parchment in his lap.

“Homework?” Steve asks, shutting the door gently behind him. 

“Nah, writing Riley.”

Steve can’t say he’s surprised. Sam always sets aside the time to sit down and write home to his Squib friend, for whom he records every single detail of his daily life so the boy won’t feel like he’s missing out on the Hogwarts experience. 

“You tell him about the Tournament?” Steve asks, crossing the room to his trunk. He opens it and hastily stashes his sketchbook inside, hidden beneath his winter sweaters.

Sam chuckles. “Yeah, told him about how my idiot friend volunteered, too.”

“So did you.” Steve points out.

“Yeah, only because I figured maybe the Goblet would choose my dumb ass and spare yours.” Sam argues back. Rhodey shifts in his sleep and Sam drops his voice to a whisper. “Where have you been?”

“Nowhere,” Steve lies, though his grin gives him away.

Sam points his wand at Steve, nearly blinding him with light. “We gonna play Good Cop/Bad Cop or are you gonna come right out and tell the truth?” He asks.

“Think I’ll take my chances with Bad Cop,” Steve says, stripping down to his boxers and undershirt before climbing into bed.

“Were you with him?” Sam asks. He doesn’t clarify who he means but, then again, he doesn’t really have to.

Steve settles in beneath the covers, turning his back on Sam before throwing a cheeky glance over his shoulder. “ _Maybe_.”

Sam laughs and lowers his wand. “ _And…?_ ”

“Nothing happened, Sam.” Steve says, repeating the tired phrase.

“If you say so,” Sam sighs, placing his wand back between his teeth. “Night Steve.”

“Night Sam,” Steve hums.

***

It arrives at breakfast the next morning.

A tawny owl lands in front of him carrying a blood red envelope stamped with a black seal. Steve freezes with his next bite of oatmeal suspended halfway between his bowl and his mouth, blinking at the equally wide-eyed bird staring back at him.

“Check it out, guys!” Clint laughs, smacking Thor and Rhodey on the shoulders to get their attention. “Steve’s got a Howler!”

“No I don’t!” Steve says despite the red letter that says otherwise. “Shoo, go away!” he hisses, nudging the owl away. Still, it’s insistent, scuttling back across the table and shaking the envelope adamantly.

“Don’t think it works like that.” Sam says. “Speaking from experience, it’s best to just get it out of the way.” He adds, and he should know. Darlene Wilson sends her son a Howler every time she receives another report about Sam flying inside the castle. Steve can still remember the time Sam hid an unopened Howler under his bed only to have it blow a sizable hole in his mattress twenty minutes later.

Steve sighs and carefully takes the Howler from the owl’s beak. It offers Steve a sympathetic hoot before stretching its wings and soaring away.

The Howler quivers in Steve’s hands, emitting a high pitched whistle like the sound a kettle makes when left on a stove top for too long. Steve squeezes his eyes shut and breaks the seal, steeling himself for what he knows is coming.

The Howler burns so hot that Steve has to drop it. It flits about erratically in the air, steaming and smoking and spitting flames. A mouth forms from the broken seal and Sarah Rogers’s voice fills the Great Hall.

“ ** _STEVEN GRANT ROGERS_** ,” his mother shrieks, “ _ **DID YOU PUT YOUR NAME IN THE GOBLET OF FIRE?**_ ” Steve frantically tries to catch the Howler and force it shut, but to no avail. It slips between his fingers and continues to attract attention from all corners of the Hall. “ **IF I DIDN’T THINK YOU WERE DETERMINED TO KILL YOURSELF, I’D COME DOWN THERE AND DO IT MYSELF!** ” 

Steve rounds on his sheepish looking friends, all of whom are suddenly suspiciously interested in their breakfasts. “Who told her?” He growls.

Sam winces. “Well, you see, it was a group decision to—”

“It was Sam’s idea!” Clint blurts, pointing an accusing finger. 

“Clint, what the Hell?” Sam shouts. 

“ _Sam?_ ” Steve cries, shocked and indignant.

“ **DOES THIS HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH THAT BOY YOU LIKE? THE ONE THE PAPERS ARE ALWAYS TALKING ABOUT?** ”

Steve redoubles his efforts at catching the Howler, refusing to as much as glance in Bucky’s direction. He’d seen him come in earlier with Natasha and Rebecca in tow. For a moment it seemed as though they’d join them at the Gryffindor table again, but Peggy Carter called them over to the Hufflepuff table instead. Steve had to try very hard not to notice when Bucky took a seat between Connie Alves and Pepper, both of whom sent him devilish grins from across the room.

“ **DID YOU THINK YOU’D PULL THE WOOL OVER YOUR DEAR MOTHER’S EYES WHILE YOU RISKED YOUR LIFE TRYING TO IMPRESS HIM?** ”

“This just gets better and better.” Clint chuckles.

“ **MERLIN’S BEARD, STEVEN. WHY DON’T YOU JUST ASK HIM OUT LIKE A NOMRAL BOY?** ” She sounds incredulous, now, but no less mad and her voice certainly hasn’t gotten any lower. “ **I DIDN’T NURSE YOU THROUGH DRAGON POX SO YOU COULD DIE IN A TOURNAMENT!** ”

“An excellent point.” Sam murmurs into his glass of pumpkin juice.

“Oh, don’t you even _start_ ,” Steve warns.

“ **I CAN’T SAY I’M SHOCKED. I’M SURE THAT BOY IS BOUND TO NOTICE YOU WHEN THEY’RE CARRYING YOU AWAY ON A STRETCHER. THEN THEY’LL BRING YOU TO SAINT MUNGO’S AND I’LL BE THERE WAITING TO TELL YOU I TOLD YOU SO.** ” She seethes.

The Howler shakes itself and straightens as if regaining its composure. Steve’s seen his mother do it a thousand times before and is mildly impressed to see a piece of paper capture the movement so perfectly. “Oh, and Samuel, dear,” she says, soft and sweet and lacking any of her former malice, “I’ve sent cookies in the post; I hope they’re still warm. Thank you for being the voice of reason my boy so dearly needs. Don’t let him get his heart broken. His body I can fix, at least.”

The letter rounds on him on him one last time. “ **WELL, STEVEN. YOU’VE _TRULY_ OUTDONE YOURSELF THIS TIME. I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY,** ” his mother concludes. The Howler blows a malicious raspberry in his face before snapping shut and falling back to the table, completely innocuous, nothing more than an envelope once more.

Not a moment later, a snowy owl soars overhead and drops a neatly packaged box in front of Sam. Steve can smell his mother’s homemade chocolate chip cookies even through the wrapping. The rapt silence of the Great Hall slowly breaks up, starting with awkward laughter and hushed whispers before blooming into the normal morning conversation.

“You weren’t writing to Riley last night, were you?” Steve asks flatly.

“No. No I was not.” Sam admits.

The silence at the table continues to swell until Clint breaks it with a pointed cough. “So…” he says, dragging out the word, “…about those cookies…”

Sam pushes them across the table into Clint’s eager hands.

“Doth my ear deceive me?” Tony asks, appearing behind Steve, breathing heavily like he’d just sprinted across the Hall which, come to think of it… “Cookies?” He asks, pointing to the box.

Clint tears the box open. “Cookies,” he confirms. Within seconds, he, Thor, Tony, and Rhodey all have their hands in the box, taking as many cookies as they can fit between their fingers.

“Lighten up, Rogers, it could have been worse.” Tony says, shoving a cookie into his mouth. “She could ‘ave named dwopped.”

“She might as well have.” Rhodey points out. To the group’s questioning glance, he explains, “I mean, how many guys can you think of who get as much press as Barnes does?”

“Could be me,” Tony suggests.

Steve scoffs. “ _Please._ ”

“Don’t say you’ve never thought about it.”

Steve glares at him as he stands from the table, figuring now is as good a time as any to head to History of Magic. At least there he’ll be able to forget his embarrassment in favor of memorizing the names of everyone on the Minister’s council during 1943. He shoves the Howler in his book bag and turns to leave, but not before reaching for a cookie himself.

The box rebuffs him, snapping shut as soon as his hand comes close and opening again only when he shifts it away. It’s a trick his mother’s been using for years. Steve huffs in frustration.

Sam reaches into the box himself and offers him the biggest cookie of the bunch. It’s an apology and a peace offering, Steve can tell, one that he accepts after only a moment of petty hesitation.

***

Much like Professor Howlett’s classroom, the dungeon in which Professor Darkhölme teaches Transfiguration bears many of the same characteristics she does: it’s dark, creepy, and Steve doesn’t want to be anywhere near it unless he absolutely has to.

The only personal effects the professor keeps in the room are a serpentine hour glass and a framed photograph of herself arm in arm with Professor Xavier and another man Steve doesn’t recognize. It’s an old photograph, Steve can tell by Professor Xavier’s full head of hair and the way that Professor Darkhölme is smiling. 

That photograph could very well be the only piece of evidence that proves she’s capable of doing so, but right now Steve is focused solely on the hour glass positioned in the center of Professor Darkhölme’s desk. He’s long since tuned out the sound of Darkhölme’s cold, clipped voice as she explains the complicated process of becoming an animagus.

“Mr. Rogers, are you paying attention?”

Steve meets her sharp yellow-eyed stare. “Yes, Professor Darkhölme,” he says flatly, ducking his head and pretending to scribble down a note on whatever it is she’s been saying.

As soon as her back is turned, Steve’s eyes slide back to the serpentine hour glass. He watches as emerald venom drips steadily from its silver fangs into the glass basin below, keeping time with every drop. As it is, the glass is nearly full and at the end of the hour the fangs will have run dry completely.

Usually Steve can distract himself, get into the lesson and actually participate despite Darkhölme’s less than encouraging nature, but tonight he can’t seem to manage it. Tonight, his mind is on the Goblet, whose decision he and the rest of Hogwarts will assemble for as soon as the last drop of venom joins the others.

While Steve continues to track the steady _drip-drip-drop_ of time passing, uncomfortable laughter blooms around the dungeon. Steve perks up immediately. Laughter in Darkhölme’s classroom never means anything good. He looks up to see Bucky staring back at him from the front of the room. 

Bucky’s blue eyes bleed into bright yellow. “Maybe this will get your attention, Mr. Rogers?” Professor Darkhölme taunts.

Steve’s cheeks burn and he wonders just how much embarrassment he can endure in a single day. He knows Clint has a big mouth, and it isn’t like he’s guarded the secret particularly well himself, but _Darkhölme_ , for Merlin’s sake?

The last drop of venom drips into the basin, freeing the class. Gryffindors and Ravenclaws alike scurry to cram their books into their bags and flee the dungeon, bottlenecking at the door in their haste to leave. Professor Darkhölme doesn’t seem to take much offense. In fact, she looks rather pleased, watching on as lethargically as ever, wearing Bucky’s body and an empty grin that looks so wrong on his face.

“See you next week, Mr. Rogers!” She calls to him as he scrambles out the door.

He doesn’t stop running until he’s made it to the spinning stairs, at which point he leans on the railing to catch his breath, huffing and puffing so loudly that he doesn’t hear the distinct sound of clicking heels joining him on the staircase.

“I assume this is Darkhölme’s doing?” Steve looks up to see Peggy Carter looking back at him, brows drawn upward with concern. “What’s she up to this time?”

Steve laughs and straightens up. “Promise not to tell?” He asks.

“On my grandmother’s grave,” Peggy swears.

“She, ah…She turned into Bucky so I’d pay attention.” Steve admits.

Peggy cracks a smile. “Well, that’s one way to do it, I suppose.” She pauses. “Did it work?”

Steve scoffs with mock offense. “Think I’m that easy, huh?”

“Well, since you’re avoiding the question, I’ll have to assume…” she trails off suggestively.

Steve smiles and rolls his eyes. “No, it didn’t work.”

Peggy hums thoughtfully. “No, I suppose it would take a lot more than Barnes’s good looks to make that class tolerable.”

They navigate the stairs together down to the main floor. Peggy manages to transition from staircase to staircase without a single misstep. Pepper’s lessons must be paying off. It took Steve the entirety of his First Year just to take the stairs without feeling sick to his stomach afterwards. As they step off the stairs, a voice calls to them from behind.

“Hey British, wait up!”

A petite blonde with bouncing curls and a Beauxbatons uniform hurries down the staircase, taking them two at a time to catch up. She leaps from the fourth step as the stairs begin to shift away, stumbling to a stop in front of them, knocking her hat askew in the process.

“Do be more careful, would you?” Peggy asks, adjusting the girl’s hat. “What’s the rush?”

“I want to make sure I’m sitting next to you when your name comes out of the fire!” She says like it should be obvious. “Who’s this guy?” She asks, acknowledging Steve’s presence.

“Angie, Steve. Steve, Angie Martinelli.” Peggy says.

“Call me Angie,” she says, taking Steve and Peggy by the forearm and tugging them along with the tide. “Steve…” she says to herself. “Steve…Steve…I don’t like it. Too generic. Where you from, Steve?”

“Brooklyn.” Steve answers.

“Brooklyn!” Angie cries. “Brooklyn, it is!”

“And now you know why she calls me English,” Peggy utters under her breath.

“I heard that!” Angie snaps. She tugs harder on their arms, weaving through the bodies as they make their way towards the Great Hall. “Come on, come on! It’s not every day that you get to witness your best friend making history!”

“And if the Goblet doesn’t choose me?” Peggy asks. “It might just as well choose Dottie. Or Gwen.”

Angie scoffs. “Now you’re just talking crazy. Underwood’s tough and Stacy’s brilliant, but you’re Peggy Carter.”

Peggy preens a bit at that, holding her head high. “I am, aren’t I?”

“What about you, Brooklyn?” Angie asks. “Saw you put your name in. You think you got a shot?”

“My odds are as good as anyone’s, I guess.” Steve says, thinking of the other names he knows are in the Goblet. There’s Thor and Sam, both of whom he’d watched volunteer last week. The Howling Commandos had all offered their names as well, even Gabe. There has to be more, Steve is sure, but those are just the names he knows.

“Well, between you and me, my money’s on you.” Angie says confidently.

“And Durmstrang?” Steve asks.

“Well, I’d say Barnes was a shoe-in, but the Romanov girl’s the only one who volunteered, isn’t she?” Angie asks.

Steve remembers the deafening silence that had followed Natasha’s entering of the Tournament. Since that night, he hasn’t seen a single red coat approach the Goblet again.

“Something tells me Pierce will find a way to get what he wants.” Peggy says.

“And what’s that?” Steve asks.

“Bucky in the Tournament by any means necessary.” Peggy explains.

“But he doesn’t want to compete.” Steve says.

Peggy scoffs. “As if Pierce gives a damn about what Bucky wants.”

Steve wants to ask what she means by that, but anything he was about to say would have likely been drowned out by the excited buzz of chatter as Angie hauls them into the Great Hall, shouldering her way through the thick crowd none too gently. 

It’s apparent that tonight is one of the few nights that Fury has imposed the House-regulated seating assignments. Every Hogwarts student is seated at their designated table while the students of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang are mixed in amongst their hosting Houses. It takes Steve no time at all to find Bucky, the red of his coat and Natasha’s fiery hair beside him stands out against the sea of green and silver. 

He splits away from Peggy and Angie, wishing Peggy good luck before fighting through the crowd on his own. He falls into the open seat beside Clint with a sigh of relief. When he turns to say something about how he can swear the school’s gotten smaller since they were First Years, he catches sight of something that makes him stop short.

“Are you wearing your hearing aid?” Steve asks, staring at the white plastic tucked into Clint’s right ear.

“You nag me about it for six years and now you’re surprised?” Clint asks incredulously. To Steve’s unwavering stare, he sighs. “It was Barnes, alright?”

“Oh, come on,” Sam whines, “don’t tell me you’re in love with him now, too!”

“And risk getting ‘ _TRAITOR_ ’ cursed into my forehead for all eternity? Yeah, right.” Clint scoffs. “Besides, my tastes cater towards scary red heads with a low tolerance for bullshit.”

“You ought to tell Tony that,” Rhodey says, “you two can start a club.”

As the last few students trickle through the double doors, Steve’s eyes are drawn to the High Table. It’s rare for all the professors to assemble on the same night, but tonight sees the reunion of the entire Hogwarts staff. Even the reclusive Professor Xavier has emerged from his Divinations tower for the first time since last year’s Year End feast. Steve can’t remember the last time he’s seen them all together like this. He supposes it’s a testament to the importance of what’s to come.

Fury stands from his seat at the center of the table and silence falls over the Hall. “Is this everyone?” He asks. He takes the silence that follows as an answer and points his wand at the doors. They swing shut with a heavy thud that resonates throughout the hall, echoing in the high ceilings.

“I take it you all know why you’re here.” Fury says, walking slowly behind the chairs of the staff, surveying the crowd carefully. “To find out which students will represent you in the Tri-Wizard Tournament, and bring honor and glory to your schools.”

“Or die trying,” Clint whispers ominously.

“I would like to commend those of you who honored the rules set by me and my colleagues in regard to the age restrictions placed upon those eligible to complete.” He continues, turning the corner and continuing his path along the front of the table. “With the glaring exception of _one_ student, there were no attempts made to fool the Goblet.”

“Who was that?” Steve asks. “Who was the one who tried?”

Sam chuckles. “When’s the last time you saw Peter Quill?”

“With that said, I do believe we have more pressing matters to attend to.” Professor Fury says, raising his wand to the basins hanging from the stone gargoyles around the room. He casts his wand at each one in turn, dimming the flames dancing in their basins until the only light comes from that of the Goblet, whose fire burns on brightly, casting an eerie blue light over everything.

“It is time now for the Goblet to make its decision. I doubt I need to remind you that if your name is chosen, there is no going back. You are bound by magical law to compete.” He says gravely. “If selected you will come up and greet your Headmaster and they will lead you into the Trophy Room where you will await further instruction.”

“Trophy Room?” Clint whispers.

“The door behind the High Table,” Rhodey says.

“ _That’s_ what that is?” Clint asks incredulously.

“What did you think it was?” Rhodey asks.

“…the bathroom?”

“I ask that Headmaster Pierce and Headmistress Hill join me at the Goblet.” Fury says.

There’s scattered applause as Hill and Pierce stand from the table. While Hill and Fury seem to be on the same page in regards to their stiff black suits and matching cloaks, Pierce has chosen to honor the occasion with his most ostentatious suit yet: a golden, glittering disaster completed by a dragon skin cloak of green and gold. They join Fury beside the Goblet, Pierce to his left and Hill to his right, just as they’d sat at the table.

“First,” Fury says, reaching his hands towards the Goblet, “The Beauxbatons Champion…“

The air in the room is electric, punctuated by gasps and squeals as a single scrap of parchment shoots from the Goblet, leaving a trail of burning ashes in its wake. Fury reaches up and plucks it from the air, turning the pale blue parchment in his hand. He unfolds it carefully and reads the name upon it. 

“Margret Carter,” he announces.

The Great Hall explodes with applause as Peggy stands from the Hufflepuff table. The ladies of Beauxbatons raise theirs wands and conjure sparks of brilliant blue fireworks around the room, popping and exploding with vivid color. They light the proud smile on Peggy’s face as she makes her way across the Hall.

Angie Martinelli leads the Hall in a chant of, “ _CAR-TER! CAR-TER!_ ” and Steve can’t help but join in. He’s unsurprised when Bucky stands on his bench and whistles, loud and crisp with his fingers between his lips. 

Peggy arrives at the Goblet and bows to her Headmistress. Hill bows in return before putting an arm around her and leading her into the Trophy Room. The applause continues long after the door shuts behind them.

“Now,” Fury says, his deep voice resonating above the crowd, “The Durmstrang Champion…”

Silence falls once again as Fury reaches his hand up to the flames. For a long time, nothing happens. The Goblet continues to burn, but it offers no name. Whispers stir around the Hall and Fury’s eye narrows in suspicion. To his left, Pierce fidgets uncomfortably with the sleeve of his suit, tugging at the cuff nervously.

Finally, after nearly seven minutes of hesitation, the Goblet spits out its second scrap of parchment. Fury plucks it from the air and reads the name.

“James Barnes.”

“I didn’t know he volunteered.” Sam says, nearly inaudible over the ensuing applause.

Steve cranes his neck to watch as Bucky rises from the Slytherin table. There’s a look on his face that Steve’s never seen before, not in person or in papers. It’s purposefully blank, like he’s schooled his features into careful indifference. He nods to Headmaster Fury as he passes but refuses to meet Pierce’s gaze and shrugs off the hand that Pierce tries to place on his shoulder. Steve’s reminded of him and Peggy’s conversation from earlier.

“ _As if Pierce gives a damn about what Bucky wants…_ ”

Bucky doesn’t wait for Headmaster Pierce as he walks out of the Hall, joining Peggy and Headmaster Hill in the Trophy Room. Pierce offers the crowd a jovial wave and a quick bow before disappearing through the door as well.

“And The Hogwarts Champion…” Fury says as soon as the door swings shut behind Pierce.

The energy in the room becomes tense once again as the Goblet shoots the third and final name into the air. Fury catches it and shakes off the burning ash.

“No hard feelings, my friends?” Thor says while they await the verdict.

“None,” Sam promises and Steve nods in agreement.

Fury unfolds the parchment and looks to the Gryffindor table. “Steven Rogers.”

The Great Hall erupts in applause. Steve blushes hard; refusing to stand until Sam has to physically push him from the bench.

“Go on, get up there!” He urges, shooing Steve along.

The gravity of the situation hits him right as Fury offers him his hand to shake. He’s not thinking of the applause or the proud look on Erskine’s face as he passes along the High Table. He’s thinking of the look on his mother’s face when she finds out he’d not only volunteered for the Tri-Wizard Tournament, but he’d been _chosen_ to complete. He’s thinking of the death toll and how he hopes his name doesn’t join the notorious list of Tournament fatalities.

When he and Fury enter the Trophy Room, the scene inside isn’t quite as he’d imagined it. Peggy and Bucky stand side by side in front of a roaring fireplace that reflects off the glittering gold and silver trophies around the room, hung from every wall and displayed on every shelf. Headmistress Hill stands close at Peggy’s side while Pierce and Bucky aren’t even looking at one another, though that seems to be more Bucky’s doing than Pierce’s.

“Shall we get started?” Fury asks as he comes into the room.

“Ready when you are, my friend.” Pierce says happily.

Steve’s not sure if he imagines the slight roll of Fury’s eye. “Then let’s not waste any more time than we have to,” he says, waving his wand at the door.

“ _STOP!_ ”

A small figure slips through the closing door and storms into the room. Rebecca Barnes emerges from the shadows with her wand drawn; wielding it menacingly at Pierce’s stunned face.

“What is the meaning of this?” He sputters indignantly. 

“YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID!” She shouts. Bucky steps between the two and catches Rebecca around the waist, pulling her away. “He can’t do this, Bucky, he can’t!” She sobs, tears of frustration welling in her eyes. “He can’t get away with this! You didn’t volunteer! There _has_ to be some way…”

“That’s a serious accusation, Miss. Barnes. Is it true?” Fury asks with his eye trained on Bucky.

Bucky’s eyes dart quickly to Pierce. “No, sir,” he says, then, after a beat, “I volunteered myself.”

“Bucky, no…” Rebecca whimpers, fisting her hands in Bucky’s coat and burying her face in his chest.

“See? The girl’s simply overreacting.” Pierce says jovially. “Anyone would, given the circumstance. Though I’m sure Mr. Barnes wouldn’t have volunteered if he didn’t think he could handle it.”

The look Bucky gives Pierce is downright icy as he wraps an arm around Rebecca as she continues to sob into his chest. Steve averts his eyes, meeting Peggy’s gaze from across the room. She looks about as lost for what to do in this situation as he does.

“Mr. Barnes, might I ask you to escort your sister back to the dormitories?” Fury asks, though Fury has that way about him that even his questions come out sounding like orders.

“No problem,” Bucky says, holding Pierce’s gaze for a moment longer before turning and guiding Rebecca out of the room, keeping one arm around her slim shoulders and her face buried in his coat. Steve thinks he can still hear her whispering, “You didn’t, Bucky! You didn’t!” as the door closes heavily behind them.

“Well,” Pierce says, throwing his arms up with a sigh, “women, am I right?” He says with a grin, a grin which falls as soon as he catches the full effect of Headmistress Hill’s glare. “Nick…” he says uneasily, “you were saying something?”

“I think this has been enough excitement for one night.” Fury says, watching Pierce through his narrowed eye. “What’s say we reconvene tomorrow? 10 o’clock, my office.” He suggests.

“Works for me,” Pierce says, tone light as if none of this has any effect on him.

Headmistress Hill offers a stiff nod. She, too, is assessing Pierce carefully out of the corner of her eyes.

“Me as well.” Peggy says.

“Yeah, I can do that,” Steve says.

“Then you two are free to go.” Fury says, nodding to the door. “And if you see Mr. Barnes, be sure to tell him about tomorrow.” He says to both of them, though his eye lingers on Steve.

Steve and Peggy nod in understanding before taking their leave. The door is barely opened before the applause in the Great Hall begins anew and a fresh batch of Beauxbatons’s fireworks lights the sky, now including a few sparks of scarlet and gold.

“Go,” Peggy says over the noise. “Find him.”

And he does. He ignores the calls from his friends as he sprints past the Gryffindor table, trying to imagine where Bucky may have gone. As it turns out, he doesn’t have to look all that far. Two doors down from the Great Hall, a sliver a light cuts across hallway. Steve approaches the open door, peeking through the crack left in the doorway.

Rebecca and Bucky stand alone in the empty classroom and while Steve can’t see Bucky’s face, he can see Rebecca’s, swollen and red and stained with tears that continue to fall.

“Why did you lie?” Rebecca sobs, hands fisted in Bucky’s collar once again while her eyes search her brother’s face for some sort of explanation.

“You know why.” Bucky snaps. “You know what would have happened if I hadn’t stopped you.”

“Bucky, I don’t care—,”

“Well I do!” Bucky shouts. “You think I’d let that bastard do that to you?”

Rebecca sobs and shakes her head. “I’m scared for you.” She whispers softly. “You’re all I have.”

Steve backs away slowly. He’s already seen too much, he thinks. He sticks to the shadows as he makes his way back towards the Great Hall, all the while trying to piece together what he’d just seen. One phrase keeps repeating itself in his mind, over and over:

“ _As if Pierce gives a damn about what Bucky wants…_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CHAPTER SIX:** An Interview with Everhart
> 
> “So, tell me Steve,” Everhart says, poising her quill over her journal, “what makes you so special?”
> 
> “Nothin’,” Steve says with a shrug, “I’m just a kid from Brooklyn.”
> 
> “ _Just a kid from Brooklyn._ ” Everhart repeats, obviously disinterested by Steve’s humility. “But the Goblet _chose_ you. Surely there must be something about you that sets you apart?”
> 
> Steve shrugs again. “Maybe that’s a conversation you ought to have with the Goblet, Miss Everhart. As far as I’m concerned, I’m no better than anyone else who volunteered.”
> 
> Everhart’s eyes narrow. Steve’s giving her nothing to work with. Bucky can see the gears of her malicious mind turning. “And what of your competitors?” She asks finally. “Why do you think they were chosen?”
> 
> Steve flushes and shakes his head. “I don’t—I don’t know. It’s hard to pick just one thing, you know? They both do so much, _so_ much for the wizarding world and to pick just one thing would be—,”
> 
> “Woah, woah!” Everhart chuckles, scribbling furiously in her journal. “Slow down there, Mr. Rogers. Someone may think you have a _crush._ ” 
> 
> Steve turns impossibly redder and Everhart notices. She grins and scribbles another quick note. Steve gapes soundlessly, watching her hand fly across the page.
> 
> Bucky comes to his rescue. “Don’t see how that’s any of your business.”


	6. The Ghost of Tournament's Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *crawls from the literal pits of Hell with this chapter clenched in my teeth.*
> 
> Okay, so obviously I owe a bit of an explanation here. This chapter has been a battle ground for my writer's block for 3+ months. I've also been really struggling with my anxiety and depression while also working the summer away, and this story definitely struggled because of it.
> 
> BUT NOW I RETURN, WITH MORE CHAPTERS! I was really hoping to surprise everyone with TWO new chapters, but Chapter Seven still needs a little tweaking, so I'll be getting that up tomorrow. (It's my first day off in 3 months, so I'm excited to say the least.)
> 
> Okay, with all that being said, I just wanted to thank everyone who has CONTINUED to show this story support despite it's slow updating. I'm going to respond to everyone as SOON as this chapter's posted because you guys are what kept me motivated to actually write this thing. So thank you again. SO SO SO SO MUCH. I hope to hear from you guys again (and please be gentle with me, I really truly am SO sorry), your comments, jokes, thoughts, headcannons all make this SO fun and I love every single little thing you guys say. You're all so wonderful and I can't thank you enough for your support.
> 
> And, finally, I've got a little warning for this chapter. The scene is brief, but the Cruciatus Curse is used at one point during this chapter. It's brief, but I wanted to warn those of you who might not wanna read that! This chapter's a little plot-heavy, but I hope it's still got all the magic and fluff that has made you guys like it so much.
> 
> OKAY. I'LL SHUT UP! And I'll add the Chapter Seven preview at the bottom. I think you guys will really like it. We're going to see SO many cameos you will not know what to do with yourselves. :D

“I know you’re there. You might as well come out now.”

Bucky sighs and slides his book back on the shelf, filling the space that _just so happens_ to offer the perfect view of Natasha’s red head bowed over her Arithmancy book. “How’d you know?”

“Because _no one_ is that interested in Herbology,” she says. “You’ve been staring at that book for twenty minutes. I hope you learned something, at least.”

“Learned that I still can’t pull one over on you,” Bucky says, coming to join her at the table and taking the open seat across from her, “and why no one is interested in Herbology.”

Natasha offers him a small quirk of her lips and nothing more, fully immersed in the text beneath her.

Bucky’s been keeping a watchful eye over her every second of every day since she volunteered and while he knows she’s more than capable of looking after herself, that doesn’t mean Pierce can’t catch her off guard—a fact that he reminds her of constantly, including now as he glances around the library wearily.

“ _No one_ catches me off guard,” she says without taking her eyes off her book, the response having become practiced over the past week. 

Bucky laughs and relaxes back into his chair. It’s been fun, the way their roles have reversed. It almost makes up for the years of disastrous matchmaking.

_Almost._

In fact, she’s been so busy trying to avoid him that she hasn’t had the time to bother him about his progress with Steve, or rather the pathetic lack thereof…

“Well if you’re just going to sit there, why don’t you make yourself useful,” she says, sliding a scrap of parchment across the table. “I need that.”

“You tryin’ to get rid of me?” Bucky asks in mock offense, picking up the parchment and reading ‘ _New Theory of Numerology_ ’.

Natasha smirks. “Is it that obvious?”

Bucky stands and takes the parchment with a dramatic flourish. “I can see when my presence isn’t wanted,” he pouts.

“Not unwanted,” Natasha says, “just unwarranted.”

Bucky scoffs and disappears into the stacks, deftly ducking the self-sorting books as they flutter past, a skill he’s had to learn the hard way through trial and error and more than a dozen painful bumps on the head.

The Arithmancy section is kept towards the back, nearest to a long line of floor to ceiling windows overlooking the lawn and the sparkling surface of the Great Lake beyond it. Bucky takes a second to admire the view, a rolling expanse of green grass filled with students studying or otherwise pretending to. One student in particular catches his attention, carrying a sketchbook across the grounds towards the thick woodlands that lay on the Lake’s edge.

He watches Steve disappear into the tree line and realizes that this could be his chance to finally get a minute alone with Steve, but he’s got no reason to be in the forest. He sighs and looks away from the window, shoulders sagging in defeat. Where’s Rebecca and her nagging ideas when he needs them most?

He freezes and turns back to the window as an idea begins to form in his head.

_Rebecca…_

He runs his finger along the spines of at least a hundred books before happening across ‘ _New Theory of Numerology_. He pulls it from the shelf with an excited whoop and almost forgets to duck the incoming books in his rush to get back to Natasha. He throws the book on her desk, finally eliciting enough interest for her to lift her head from her book with a cocked brow, demanding an explanation.

“Sorry, something came up,” he says hastily, already three shelves away.

“Tell Steve I say hi,” she calls to his retreating back.

Bucky can picture the grin on her face, partly because of the comment and partly because she thinks she’s finally free from Bucky’s watchful eye. Bucky laughs. _Little does she know…_

He stops at a book case three aisles away and whistles a quick two-note tune. Clint’s shock of blonde hair pops out from above.

“Watch her,” Bucky orders.

“Like a hawk,” Clint promises with a salute before returning to his post.

With that taken care of, he sets out to find his sister. Not hard to do, given that she and her fellow Third Year friends tend to stick to the same familiar loitering spots. What’s harder to do is convince them to go along with his plan.

“You want us to _what?_ ”

Eight sets of disbelieving eyes stare back at him and Bucky resists the urge to roll his own. 

“Keep your voice down, would you?” he hisses, glancing over his shoulder quickly to make sure the coast is clear. Thor’s just down the hall, Bucky can hear him speaking loudly with a pretty Ravenclaw about “ _the alignment of the nine realms_ ”, and Grant Ward won’t be back to take his prefect duties too seriously for at least another ten minutes. He turns back to the small group assembled in the alcove beneath the main stairwell before repeating himself for what feels like the hundredth time. “I need you to chase me to the Great Lake.”

“ _Why_?” Rebecca asks, narrowing her eyes in suspicion.

Bucky opens his mouth, a lie already on his tongue, but at the last minute he snaps his mouth shut and settles for a meaningful look, one that Rebecca must understand given the way her face lights up immediately.

“What’s in it for us?” She asks, crossing her arms with a cocked brow and a smirk.

This time, Bucky really does roll his eyes. “What do you want?”

“A hundred galleons,” she says, “ _each_ ,” she adds, earning a chorus of approval from her friends.

“ _Each_?” Bucky scoffs. To Rebecca’s firm nod, he shakes his head. “Fifty,” he bargains.

“Two hundred.”

“ _One_ hundred.”

“Deal,” Rebecca says with a grin. 

Behind her, Rebecca’s friends giggle excitedly, eyes shining like the galleons that are about to line their pockets. Bucky realizes a moment too late that he’d been tricked and reminds himself to keep his sister away from Quill and his buddies.

“Fine, hundred galleons each,” Bucky concedes. “And you don’t tell _anybody_ about this.”

“Silence’ll cost you ex- _tra_ ,” Rebecca says in a sing-song, bouncing on her toes.

And that’s how he finds himself nearly a thousand galleons lighter, sprinting across the same quad he’d admired from the window. You’d think for an athlete he’d be able to handle a little long distance running, but by the time he hits the dirt path carving through the thick woodlands, his legs and lungs are burning with every step he takes.

He ducks behind the thick trunk of a weeping willow for a few seconds of rest only to find that he’s not alone, and while he may have been winded from his run, it’s the sight of Steve Rogers wide eyed and slack jawed that _really_ takes his breath away.

“Come on,” he hears Rebecca yell. “I think he went this way!”

Bucky glances back and forth between Steve and the hallowed bark of the willow’s trunk behind him before hastily backing him into that niche, one hand flattened in the center of his chest, the other braced against the bark. Bucky glances down at the space between them, or rather the lack thereof, and bites his bottom lip to keep from grinning at the sight.

“What are you—” Steve manages to say before Bucky can clamp a hand over his mouth, shushing him with a finger pressed to his own lips. Steve nods minutely and Bucky feels his pulse quicken at the sight of Steve’s blue eyes so wide and innocent above his hand. 

Bucky reluctantly looks away and tilts his head to listen as the footsteps grow louder before passing by and fading away as the girls run past. He waits until long after their giggles and chatter have faded into the sounds of the forest before dropping his hand. It’s well worth a thousand galleons to see the blush on Steve’s cheeks when he does.

“Sorry about that,” he apologizes, “couldn’t shake ‘em.”

“Poor you,” Steve says dryly.

Bucky laughs. “They only want me for my body,” he says with mock offense.

Bucky doesn’t miss the way Steve’s eyes sweep over his body before he catches himself and stares resolutely at the ground. “So what brings you down here, huh?” He asks, settling down amongst the roots growing up from the ground in gnarled patches. “There a group of girls trailin’ you I ought to worry about?”

Steve snorts and glances away with an easy smile. “Oh yeah, whole pack of them. You just missed them, actually.” 

They ought to make a cure for that smile, because as far as Bucky’s concerned that shit’s contagious. It’s got him grinning like an idiot, too. “I’d believe it,” he says, propping his legs up and reclining against the tree roots. “Best Keeper in Hogwarts history? It’s a wonder you can keep ‘em off you.”

“Now where did you hear about that?” Steve asks.

Bucky freezes for a minute. It’s not like he can admit that he (albeit _sort of_ reluctantly) snooped through Steve’s private file. 

“Heard it around,” he says evasively, which is still true. It’s hard to make it from class to class without hearing about _Captain Rogers!_ and the perfect season where he didn’t allow for a single point, especially when Phil Coulson catches up to him and gives Bucky a detailed play-by-play of every game from that year.

Steve must buy it, though. He laughs and shakes his head. “Well, I’m far from the best,” he says humbly. “You probably heard that in the same place they say your arm vibrates.”

Bucky’s head pops off the root it had been resting against. “Is that what they’re saying?” He asks incredulously. “No wonder they’re chasing me,” he mutters, dropping his head heavily. He glances at the arm in question and pouts thoughtfully. _Not a bad idea, though…_

The sound of shuffling draws Bucky’s attention. He watches as Steve picks up his sketchbook and resituates himself against the willow’s trunk, flicking through the pages, scribbling a detail here and there before turning to a new page with an agitated huff.

Bucky watches him work for a few minutes before breaking the silence between them. “How come you didn’t show me this place before, huh?” He asks, dipping his fingers in the nearby water and running them across the smooth surface.

“Because I’ve never shown it to anybody,” Steve says without looking up from his sketchbook.

Bucky’s heart sinks. “Oh,” he says. He pulls his hand back from the water and hastily dries it on his pants while shifting to get up. _Stupid, stupid… If Steve had wanted company, he’d have asked you himself._ “Right, sorry. Sort of invited myself, huh? I’ll just—”

“No!” Steve blurts. “No, you’re fine! You can stay,” he says, “if you want to.”

“You sure?” Bucky asks, frozen between leaving and staying.

Steve shrugs. “So long as you promise not to tell the guys where I hide,” he says with a pointed look.

Bucky grins and falls back against the roots. “I swear, your secret’s safe with me,” he says, crossing his heart with his fingers.

The blue sky above bleeds pink around seven and Bucky watches as the day becomes dusk through the leaves. When the pink finally succumbs to the inky blackness of night, the only light comes from the stars above and the fireflies that blink steadily in the darkness.

Steve abandons his sketchbook at sundown, choosing instead to join Bucky by the water. Even in the limited light he can see Steve’s eyes, big and bright, watching him like Bucky’s the most interesting thing in the world while he rambles about his week. So Bucky keeps talking. And Steve _listens_.

For the past two years it feels like all Bucky’s done is talk about himself, but it never felt like anyone was listening. With Steve he doesn’t have to be interesting or composed or controversial. He can be Bucky Barnes—just a regular boy who falls asleep in the library more often than not and snorts when he laughs too hard. But that’s alright, because Bucky can make Steve laughs so hard he gives himself the hiccups, which Bucky finds hopelessly, pathetically endearing.

That’s why, at the end of the night, Bucky finds himself wandering in the lantern-lit halls dazed and grinning like he’s been stupefied. He’s nearly back to the Slytherin dungeons when the soft sound of footfalls alert him to another presence in the hall.

“Steve?” Bucky asks, trying not to sound too hopeful as he searches the shadows.

“Mr. Barnes.” Bucky’s stomach drops at the sound of Headmaster Pierce’s voice. He appears beside him in a fitted black suit and simple black cloak, subdued for his usual taste. “I was wondering if we might have a word?”

Bucky neither agrees to nor declines the conversation, not that it matters to Pierce. “You know, James, I’ve had my eye on you for a while,” he says. When Bucky offers no response, Pierce continues undeterred. “Your work has been a gift to our kind. You’re shaping the century.”

“Didn’t know you were a fan,” Bucky says, keeping his eyes on the stone floor that glows golden in the light of the torches.

“Oh, but I am,” Pierce laughs, “and I know I’m not alone in that. That’s why I’ve come to talk to you.” He pauses. The silence stretches between them and, once again, Pierce is the one to fill it. “I think you and I could help one another, Mr. Barnes,” he says. “Perhaps…come to an understanding of sorts? Something…mutually beneficial?”

“Why?” Bucky asks, finally meeting Pierce’s eye. In the flickering light of the torches, his age shows in the deep lines of his face.

“Your friend Miss Romanov made a very big mistake,” Pierce says conversationally, masking his threat in informality.

“What do you want, huh?” Bucky asks. “I didn’t ask her to volunteer! There’s nothing you or me or anyone else can do about it.”

“But don’t you see?” Pierce asks, taking on a softer tone. “That’s where you’re _wrong_.” 

Bucky narrows his eyes, which Pierce takes as a sign to continue. “While it’s true that you may have seen your fair share of mudslinging in the press, I think you and I can both agree that the Romanov name is _dripping_ with blood. And it’s not exactly a secret, is it?” Pierce chuckles softly. “Dreykov’s daughter…Sao Paulo…the hospital fire…”

“That wasn’t her!” Bucky snaps, taking a step towards Pierce. 

Pierce holds his hands up in surrender. “Maybe not,” he appeases, “but I’ll take a little mud over blood any day, for appearance’s sake.”

“And you’re all about appearances, aren’t you, Headmaster?” Bucky asks. He doesn’t care to hear any more. He turns on his heel and starts to walk away, but Pierce stops him with a single sentence.

“You can do something about it, James.” Bucky freezes on the spot. He’s torn between telling Pierce to take a hike and actually listening to what he has to say. Pierce makes the decision for him. “Put your name in.”

“Piss off,” Bucky says, taking another step away.

“ _Crucio!_ ”

Bucky’s legs buckle beneath him, sending him to his knees as searing agony wracks his body. He cries out in pain, his screams echoing off the stone walls. He collapses on his side, twitching through the aftershocks. He forgets where he is for a moment and who he’s with, but it all comes flooding back to him when Pierce’s shiny dress shoes come into view.

“I think we understand each other now. Don’t we, Mr. Barnes?” Pierce asks, crouching over Bucky’s body. “It would be a shame to subject Miss Romanov to the same fate, wouldn’t it?”

Bucky forces himself to look up and meet Pierce’s gaze. He gives a weak nod, earning a smile from the man above him.

“Get up,” Pierce says as he stands and tucks his wand inside his jacket, “you haven’t got much time.” His footsteps retreat down the hall, echoing quietly off the stone. Before he turns the corner, he looks back to Bucky and frowns. “It didn’t have to be this way, Mr. Barnes,” he says sadly, turning away without another word.

Bucky drags himself down to the Goblet and puts his name in as soon as he can get his feet beneath him again.

***

“ _What the Hell were you thinking?_ ” Natasha asks, dumping too much phoenix ash into their cauldron, turning it a swampy green color that isn’t even mentioned in the text. “I could have handed it!”

He tells her during Potions the day after the Goblet’s decision. It isn’t like telling Rebecca, but then again, few things have ever broken Bucky’s heart like the way Rebecca’s voice cracks when she’s upset. With Natasha there aren’t any tears, not that Bucky expected them, just a hard look in her eyes that says if she could hit him right now, she absolutely would.

Bucky glances over his shoulder to make sure that Professor Summers is still at his desk before turning back to Natasha. “What could you have done?”

“Do you want me to list the hexes alphabetically or rank them by pain?” She asks, pulling a pile of dandelion roots towards her and picking up a blade. “I can’t _believe_ he’d do that,” she hisses as she begins chopping, “that curse is Unforgivable.”

Bucky watches the blade inch steadily closer towards Natasha’s fingers. “Nat…”

“You could take it to the Ministry.”

“Nat…”

“Then again, Pierce has got his hand so far up their asses it might as well be a puppet show.”

Bucky catches her hand seconds before she can nick her finger by mistake. “ _Nat_ ,” he says, “let’s talk about something else, alright?” He pries the blade from her fingers and takes over the job himself.

“Fine,” she says, retreating to her stool to watch on as Bucky tries to save their brew of Amortentia. “How’s Steve?” She asks after a few moments of stony silence.

Bucky sighs and starts chopping. He’s not sure whether to be relieved for the change of topic or disappointed that his reprieve from her efforts in matchmaking has finally come to its inevitable end. “Steve is fine,” he says.

“Recovering well from that Howler?”

Bucky gives her a pointed glare as he slides the chopped roots into their potion. She of all people should know just how hard he’d worked to distract everyone within earshot from listening in on Steve’s Howler. She’d watched with knowing eyes while he did all he could to take the attention off the heated blush creeping up the back of Steve’s neck. 

“Haven’t talked to him since.”

“But you heard what it said, didn’t you?”

“Didn’t everybody?” Bucky asks while scanning the page of their textbook for instructions on how to save this thing from disaster. By this stage, it’s supposed to smell like at least one of the three things that attract the intended recipient, but all Bucky can smell is burnt rubber and rotting pumpkins.

“You know what I mean,” Natasha says. “Did you hear the part about the boy he likes? The one the papers are _always_ talking about?” She quotes smugly.

“That could be anybody,” Bucky says evasively. “Besides, it ain’t our business.”

Natasha laughs incredulously. “Name one, just one other person who’s made half as many headlines as you and I’ll drop it,” she swears.

“Tony Stark,” Bucky says smartly. The triumphant smirk falls from Natasha’s face at about the same time Bucky realizes that he just might be right about that. “You getting anything from this?” He asks in an attempt to distract both himself and Natasha from that particular thought.

Natasha gets up and leans over their cauldron, taking a tentative sniff at the smoke curling in the air. “Coffee,” she says, “not much else, though.”

Bucky’s eyes flit to the other side of the room where Clint is fast asleep beside his cauldron despite the four empty mugs in front of him. “Coffee, huh?” He asks smugly.

Natasha follows his eyes across the room. “That’s a coincidence,” she says. If she starts turning the pages of their text book with a bit too much vigor, Bucky doesn’t mention it.

A gentle knock turns their attention to the doorway. Phil Coulson stands there with a piece of parchment in his hand. “Professor Summers,” he says, “it’s urgent, from Headmaster Fury.”

Bucky can’t see Professor Summers’s eyes from behind his thick protective goggles, but he must be reading the parchment. As soon as he’s done he looks up in Bucky’s direction. “Mr. Barnes,” he says, “you’re wanted in the Headmaster’s office.”

“I’ve been asked to bring you there myself,” Phil informs him.

“Fury must trust you then, huh?” Bucky as he stands and gathers his book bag from beneath the desk.

“He says I’m his one good eye,” Phil says proudly, cupping his hand over his left eye in an impersonation of his Headmaster.

Bucky laughs and follows Phil into the hall, feeling a little guilty for leaving Natasha with their temperamental potion. He leads him along every twist and turn until they come to a gargoyle standing sentinel at a dead end. He’s about to ask if they’d taken a wrong turn when the gargoyle’s eyes shift downward, fixing them with a disapproving stare.

“Password?” It demands in a deep, rumbling voice.

“Ezekiel 25: 17,” Coulson says.

The gargoyle hums and steps aside, revealing a circular staircase spiraling upwards towards what Bucky can only assume is Headmaster Fury’s office. They ride the stairs to the top and step off onto a small ledge leading down a short, lantern-lit hall towards a heavy wooden door.

“Cool, huh?” Phil asks, taking the lead once more.

“Yeah, cool…”

They’re nearly at the door when Phil rounds on him without warning, grabbing him by the jacket and whirling him around with all his meager might, pressing him into the stone wall just outside of Fury’s door. “Look Barnes, I like you, I really do,” he hisses, “but the Quidditch season’s coming up and Captain Rogers doesn’t need any distractions while he goes for the record, understand?”

“Not…really…” Bucky says weakly, swallowing hard.

Phil narrows his eyes and presses his fists harder into Bucky’s chest. “Don’t hurt him, because if you do, I swear, I’ll stun you and watch while you drool on the floor.”

“I don’t—I wouldn’t—,” Bucky scrambles for the right thing to say, “Alright, yeah. I won’t hurt him.”

“Good.” Phil says pleasantly, releasing his hold on Bucky and smoothing out the wrinkled fabric of his coat. “Glad we talked that out.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says breathlessly, “me, too...”

Phil smiles and knocks three times on Fury’s door.

“Come in,” is the immediate response from the other side.

Phil turns the handle and allows the door to swing open before gesturing Bucky inside. “After you,” he says politely.

Bucky enters the room slowly, feeling hot under the watchful gaze of all the three Headmasters. Both Fury and Hill are impassive as ever in their stiff black suits, but Pierce wears the smallest, smuggest smirk and a blood red fur trimmed cloak. Bucky’s left hand twitches involuntarily.

Peggy and Steve are there as well. Bucky joins them by filling the empty space between them in front of Fury’s desk. A Pensieve sits at the center, accompanied by three small vials.

“Mr. Barnes,” Fury says, “thank you for joining us.”

“Didn’t really have a choice, did I?” He asks, a reflexive jab that doesn’t go unnoticed by his Headmaster, given the narrow eyed glare he receives. 

Fury fixes him with a lingering stare of his own, his expression unreadable. “Let’s get started,” he says after a long moment. “Mr. Coulson, you’re free to go.”

Phil’s jaw drops. “But, sir, I—,” he gestures to Peggy, Steve, and Bucky, failing wildly like standing in this room means something to him beyond words.

“ _Goodbye_ , Mr. Coulson.” Fury says firmly.

Phil crosses his arms and stomps out the door, letting it slam shut behind him.

“I assume you know why we’ve called you here?” Fury asks

“To discuss the Tournament, sir?” Peggy asks.

“Indeed, Miss Carter,” Fury says. “I hope you’re all aware of what it is you’ve gotten yourselves into,” he says gravely, glancing at each of them in turn. “I take it you’re familiar with the nature of these tasks?”

“You mean the body count?” Steve asks, looking unimpressed as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“Yes, Mr. Rogers,” Fury sighs, “I mean the body count.”

Fury reaches for the vials and studies each one carefully in turn. “As Champions you join a long list of skilled students, students that were the best and brightest of their time,” he says. “However, if the Tournament has taught us nothing over the years, it’s that _skill_ does not mean _survival_.” With that, Fury pours each vial slowly into the Pensieve, allowing the memories to run together. “Rather than tell you what’s at stake here, I thought we might show you.”

“We’re going in there?” Bucky asks.

“Will that be a problem, Mr. Barnes?” Fury asks.

“No, sir,” Bucky says too fast to be believed.

“Perhaps it would be best if you went together,” Fury suggests, sounding nearly amused.

“We can do that?” Steve asks.

“We’re about to find out,” Fury says. He nods to the Pensieve, both an invitation and an instruction wrapped up in one simple gesture.

Bucky, Steve, and Peggy share similar expressions as they step up to the Pensieve, regarding it with varying degrees of trepidation. Bucky is the first to reach out and grip the stone edge with shaking hands. He screws his eyes shut and focuses on keeping his breathing steady despite the hammering in his chest. He opens his eyes only when he feels the warmth of another hand over his own. He looks down to where Steve’s hand is covering his before looking up to Steve himself.

“You can do this, Buck,” Steve says, “it’s like flying.”

“Flying,” Bucky repeats flatly, “sure.”

Peggy takes his other hand in a firm grip and squeezes reassuringly. “Come now, _surely_ it can’t be worse than prison,” she jokes.

“Ladies first, then?” Bucky offers with a nervous laugh.

Peggy snorts. “How chivalrous.”

One after another they each take a deep breath and lean into the Pensive, Peggy first, then Bucky, and then Steve. Bucky keeps his eyes screwed shut and his fingers locked in a vice grip with Steve’s as they submerge their faces completely.

It’s anticlimactic, to say the least.

At first he thinks they’ve done something wrong. It feels like he’s got his head in a sink. When Bucky opens his eyes, he’s expecting to see the bottom of the stone basin, or even just the swirling mass of glimmering memories. 

He’s not expecting to be looking down at a tumultuous storm brewing above the Great Lake from more than a hundred feet above the shoreline.

With a sudden lurch, Bucky feels his feet leave the floor of Fury’s office like he’s been catapulted into the Pensive.

Their screams pierce the air, louder than the whipping winds around them as they hurdle towards the earth. The grip he has on Steve’s hand grows tighter by the second as the ground comes speeding up to meet them. The sky and the shoreline blur together and Bucky can only think of all the things he hasn’t done. _He never renovated Wool’s Orphanage. He forgot to ask Wally what he thought of the Muggle stories he left for him outside the kitchen. He didn’t tell Rebecca he loved her today. He left Nat with that awful potion. He never kissed Steve. He never kissed Steve…_

And then they stop.

Bucky opens his eyes hesitantly and stares at the ground beneath him, blinking once, twice, before letting out a whoop of relief. They drop harmlessly into the cool sand and Bucky resists the urge to kiss every last grain on the shore.

“For the record,” he gasps, fisting clumps of wet sand in his palms, “that was _nothing_ like flying,” he sits up and flings a fistful of sand at Peggy and Steve in turn, “and _much_ worse than prison.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Barnes.”

Bucky freezes with a handful of sand still balled in his fist and casts a sheepish glance over his shoulder. He brings his gaze upward and sees Headmaster Fury, seemingly unphased by the sudden appearance of three students who had just fallen from the sky. His long black clock billows in the wind, though the leather doesn’t look nearly as worn as the last time Bucky had seen it, mere moments ago in his office.

“Sorry, Headmaster,” Bucky says, letting the sand run through his fingers.

Fury doesn’t acknowledge him, but continues to watch the storm with a pinched expression.

“Headmaster?” Steve tries, standing slowly, brushing the sand from his pants and shoulders.

“Headmaster!”

Now Fury turns, revealing the left side of his face and the absence of the eye patch that usually obscures it. It takes Bucky a moment to realize that this is Fury’s former self, the present version of which stands a few paces behind, watching on with the same stoic expression.

Bucky follows the path of those two dark eyes and sees a boy no older than himself sprinting across the shore. By the looks of it he’s one of the other Champions, dressed in the Hogwarts colors with the crest printed proudly in the center of his chest. 

“Headmaster, please!” The boy begs, falling at Fury’s feet. “You have to help her!”

Fury looks pained for a moment. “My hands are tied, Mr. Summers,” he says, turning back to the Lake. “You know the rules.”

The boy lifts his head to gawk at Fury and Bucky’s able to recognize his Potion’s professor, years younger and without the clunky protective goggles obscuring his eyes. “Headmaster, _please_!” Summers begs, balling his hands into fists and pressing them to his red-rimmed eyes. “ _Please, please,_ help her!”

His pleas are cut off by a second voice, ringing clear above the sounds of the storm.

“OUT OF MY WAY!”

A shiver runs through Bucky’s body when Headmistress Hill runs through him like he were nothing more than a cloud of mist, reminding him that they’re ghostly spectators of a memory. It takes Bucky a moment to realize that this version of Headmistress Hill is younger and infinitely less composed than the one standing at Fury’s side. This version of Hill is manic, rushing to the shore with her wand at the ready.

“Maria!” Fury’s former self calls to her. “You know the rules!”

Hill glances over her shoulder, her eyes brimming with tears. She turns away and crumples to her knees a moment later, her shoulders slumped in defeat. She tosses her wand aside and curls in on herself, howling into the sand.

“This is your memory, Headmaster?” Peggy asks tentatively.

“The 424th Tri-Wizard Tournament,” Hill says with a brief, small nod. “Three students were given a mythical creature to protect in the event of a magical disaster. While the Champions from Hogwarts and Durmstrang were able to complete the task, Jean was…” she pauses and looks away, “the Beauxbatons Champion, regrettably, did not survive. Miss Grey was the first student I lost,” Hill swallows thickly and bows her head, “and the only. There was nothing I could do.”

At the center of the storm, Jean is just barely visible. Her hair is as red as a phoenix’s flame, whipping around her terrified face seconds before she’s crushed beneath a tidal wave.

“JEAN!” Summers screams, his voice cracking with emotion.

“Miss Grey,” Fury pauses, and then changes his tone, “ _Jean_ was only fifteen years old,” he explains, “much too young to be exposed to the strain of the Tournament.”

“The Tournament was disbanded following the incident,” Hill says, still refusing to watch said incident unfold for a second time, “so you can understand why, when it was reinstated, it was done so with rules in place to protect those too young to compete.”

Bucky thinks of the students he’s heard complaining in the Common Room about the Tournament’s latest addition to the rule book. He wonders if they’d think the same after watching Jean’s body being pulled from the churning depths of the Great Lake.

“A shame indeed,” Pierce adds airily, lacking the same sincerity as his colleagues.

It doesn’t go unnoticed to Bucky that his Headmaster’s former self is noticeably absent from the scene despite having been Durmstrang’s Headmaster for the past 40 years. He looks further down the shoreline to the spectator stands erected at the lake’s edge. If he squints, he thinks he can make out the vividness of a blood red, fur-trimmed coat in the midst of a media swarm. He scoffs and turns away. _Typical_.

“Perhaps it’s time that we moved on,” Fury says, eying Hill wearily. She meets his eye and offers another small, perfunctory nod in agreement, and with that the scene around them dissolves in a swirl of grey, like ink through water. The greys and browns turn to greens and blacks with bright flashes like lightning that nearly blind Bucky as a new world comes into focus around him. When the memory finally solidifies, he finds himself standing in a forest clearing, lit only by the vivid spark of spells flying past.

“This is the Forbidden Forest,” Steve says, eyebrows knit in confusion. “There hasn’t been a task here since…”

“1962,” Fury finishes curtly. “And how, exactly, do you know what the Forbidden Forest looks like, Mr. Rogers?”

A spell whizzes by Steve, lighting the guilty look on his face. Bucky snorts, earning him a discreet punch to the shoulder from Steve that only makes him laugh all the harder. When another spell lights up Fury’s unamused expression, Bucky sobers up and thinks about exactly what it was that Fury just said.

“Wait,” he says, “ _1962_?”

“Welcome to the conversation, Mr. Barnes,” Fury says.

While it may have been long before his time, Bucky (and just about every other kid born after that fateful year) had been raised on stories of the 1962 Tri-Wizard Tournament, when Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr, and Moira McTaggert met for the closest and most controversial contest in Tri-Wizard History, or at least that’s the way the Prophet made it seem. It all came to its dramatic conclusion in the Third Task: an old-fashion duel in the Forbidden Forest.

“Come on, old friend, I know you can do better than that!” Xavier jeers from the darkness.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ”

A bright red light flies straight through Steve’s chest and whizzes into the darkness. Bucky can just make out the figure of a boy darting out of the way, evading the spell with ease.

“I think you’ve forgotten that this is a duel, Charles!” Lehnsherr teases, though Bucky can’t pin quite where it’s coming from.

“I’ve forgotten _nothing_ ,” Xavier says, proving his point by sending a hex in Lehnsherr’s direction. It’s a near miss. Bucky can see the blue of Erik’s eyes before he manages to dive out of the way.

“Bastard!” Erik shouts in protest.

“I think you’ve forgotten this is a duel, Erik!” Charles mocks smartly. Three hexes come his way in rapid succession, and its three near misses, the last of which singes the ends of Charles’s hair. “Hey, watch the hair!”

Spells fly around the clearing, deflecting, colliding with trees, sparking brightly in the night. McTaggert had sworn tearfully in the aftermath that it had all been a horrible accident, and Bucky’s starting to see how that could be true. It all happens so fast that not even he can see who delivers the fateful blow.

One minute, Xavier is dancing between bursts of light. Then next, a spell deflects once…twice…before hitting him directly in the back. He falls like a puppet cut free from its strings and the whole world plunges into an eerie silence.

“Charles?” Lehnsherr whispers.

“Oh no,” McTaggert whispers, small and broken. “L- _Lumos_!” A ball of light forms at the end of Moira’s wand and illuminates her frightened face. At the sight of Charles’s body, McTaggert drops her wand and, a moment later, falls to her knees with an anguished sob.

Lehnsherr runs across the clearing and drops to his knees at Xavier’s side, rolling the boy onto his back and pushing his wild curls from his face. “Charles, I’m sorry! Charles, I’m so sorry!” He presses his forehead against Charles’s own, screaming his apology over and over.

“Erik…” Xavier whispers, his voice soft like he’s in awe rather than pain. “Erik, I can’t feel my legs…”

“Your…legs…” Erik says slowly, turning his bloodshot eyes towards Xavier’s limp legs. Comprehension dawns on his tearstained face.

With shaking hands, McTaggert takes her wand again and fires off a red flare that pierces the darkness of the forest, the universal sign of surrender in the Tournament. 

That seems to remind Lehnsherr that he and Charles are not alone in the forest. Bucky watches his eyes shift from sadness to rage as he slowly rises to his feet, reminding Bucky of a snake ready to lash out. “You…” he hisses.

“Erik?” McTaggert asks, raising her wand defensively. Bucky doesn’t blame her. Bucky’s never seen a rage like that on his Professor’s face, not even when Bucky hexed his room so that all the furniture hung from the ceiling.

“ _You did this!_ ” He shouts, aiming his wand as well.

“Erik…don’t do this…” McTaggert pleads, her wand shaking. “Don’t make me do this, Lehnsherr!”

“ _Cruci—_ ,”

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ”

Lehnsherr’s wand flies from his hand, falling harmlessly to the ground a few feet away, but it wasn’t McTaggert who cast the spell. From every side, professors of the past flood the clearing, though it’s one in particular that catches Bucky’s eye.

A young Fury tucks his wand back into his leather cloak and enters the clearing in wide, slow strides, carefully sidestepping troublesome roots like he’s got the forest floor mapped out in his mind. It’s Fury who pries Lehnsherr away, keeping a strong grip on his shoulders while Charles is carried away by a team of Healers. Erik fights against him, spitting and sobbing, screaming for his friend and promising revenge of McTaggert, who’s currently being shielded away by Headmistress Hill’s predecessor.

“This is your memory,” Bucky deduces.

“It is,” Fury confirms.

“And what are we supposed to learn from this?” Steve asks. 

“The consequences of becoming too close to your competitors,” Fury says. “I doubt I need to remind you what became of Mr. Lehnsherr.”

 _50 years in Azkaban for the attempted practice of the Cruciatus Curse_ , that’s the punishment handed down by the Ministry. And when he returned to his former Institute, it was as a hardened man that bore no similarities to the smart-mouthed boy he’d once been. Save, perhaps, for the sepia-toned photograph of himself and Xavier that the Dark Arts professor keeps in his classroom.

Bucky casts a quick glance at Steve, wondering if history is doomed to repeat itself. He can’t bear to imagine it, so he looks away, keeping his eyes on the forest that fades to blackness around them. 

The next memory begins the same way the last one did, in a swirl of color as the worlds transition. This time, the inky blackness of the forest bleeds red and gold and orange until the memory solidifies.

This time the scene is familiar, if not quite how Bucky remembers it. Through the thick smoke in the air he can see the fractured rafters of the Quidditch pitch and the once pristine Championship pennants that hang tattered and limp from the splintered wood. There are hundreds of them, beginning in 1301, and all of them burn slowly with the rest of the pitch. Even the sky above is on fire, stained in shades of red and orange and clouded with the rising smoke.

“Durmstrang…” Bucky whispers sadly.

“As it once was,” Pierce says nostalgically. 

“Say, Barnes…” Peggy says slowly, her eyes on the pennants, “didn’t you win the Championship two years ago?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says absently as he watches one of the posts on the far side of the field give in to the flames, toppling over and taking the others down with it. The ground beneath them shakes with their heavy impact.

“Then why do you suppose the most recent pennant is from 1937?” She asks.

Bucky scans the rafters. _1932…1935…1937_ …and then nothing. Nothing but open space where his and dozens of other pennants once hung.

“ _When_ are we?” Bucky asks; though he dreads the fact that he might already know the answer to that.

“1944, Mr. Barnes,” Pierce says, confirming Bucky’s worst fear.

“This is _your_ memory?” Steve asks.

Pierce nods to something behind them. “See for yourself.”

They all turn in time to see a dark figure immerging from the haze. With their back to them, it’s hard to make out much, but Bucky can tell it’s a boy, tall and slender. The figure pauses at a pile of broken beams shifting beneath the flames. He kicks at the burning debris, revealing the face of who is undeniably a young Alexander Pierce.

“ _Please_ ,” he begs, hiding his ashen face, “ _please_ don’t kill me.”

The boy turns up his nose and considers him for a moment before reaching for his wand. 

“No!” Pierce cries, trying to shrink into the wreckage. “No! No, please! _Please_!”

The boy laughs. It’s a horrible, twisted mockery of joy that sounds right at home amongst the crackling flames. He aims his wand directly between Pierce’s wide eyes. The curse has just begun to form on his lips when a cloud of white light sweeps by, knocking the wand from the boy’s hand at the last moment. He turns to the sky with a scowl and growls at the sight of at least a dozen more Aurors circling him. 

As one Auror closes in on him, their white light illuminates the deep red of his Durmstrang uniform. The boy twists on the spot, vanishing in a cloud of smoke before the Auror can get their hands on him, but not before Bucky can get a glimpse at the once handsome face of Johann Schmidt.

“ _NO!_ ” Bucky shouts, stumbling back until he’s caught by a pair of strong arms. Those arms pull him tight against a warm body that Bucky collapses against. He clings to that warmth, hoping it can smother the cold dread that sinks in his gut.

This is the end of the memory, but as the world dissolves into an inky swirl, Bucky manages to get once last look at his Headmaster’s youthful face. Instead of seeing the fear he might have expected, Pierce looks awestruck, almost reverent as the world continues to burn around him…

Bucky tucks his face into the curve of the warmth’s neck, refusing to open his eyes until he feels them land back in Fury’s office, the sound of crackling fire and hallow laughter left behind in the depths of the Pensieve.

“Are you out of your mind?” Steve snaps accusingly. Bucky realizes belatedly how close his voice is and turns his head slightly, just enough to see the Gryffindor crest just beneath his chin. He quickly pulls away, running a hand through his hair and trying to regain some of his composure. He’s sure Peggy would be laughing at him if she weren’t currently irate.

“You should have warned him!” She shouts.

“A lesson had to be learned…” Pierce says.

“And what lesson was that?” Steve scoffs.

“ _Opportunity_ ,” Pierce says. “You are on the world’s stage and one should always act as such. This is an opportunity for you as well as those around you.”

“So you use Schmidt as an example?” Steve argues. “The people ‘around him’ were his _followers_ , who turned into his army! He used that opportunity to kill thousands of people!”

“But can we not take this as a lesson in what not to do?” Pierce asks.

“Well, _sure_ , Headmaster. I guess I’ll have to take my plans for a Purist regime elsewhere,” Steve says.

“Enough with the sarcasm, Rogers,” Fury says, sounding as though this is something he’s said a thousand times before. 

“And you? You agreed to this?” Steve asks.

“Not quite,” Fury says. He falls heavily into his chair, looking slightly haunted as though the memory had taken a toll on him as well. “Hill, the dates for the Tournament, please?” He asks.

Steve goes stiff, ready to go again, but Bucky catches his wrist and gives a small shake of his head. Steve relaxes immediately, blue eyes going soft, searching, silently asking if Bucky’s alright. He nods.

“The First Task will take place on October the 11th,” Headmistress Hill reports, “that gives you nearly a month to prepare. The Second Task falls on December 21st and the Third and final Task will be held April 13th.”

“Any questions?” Fury asks, searching each one of their faces in turn. He pauses on Bucky’s. “No?” Bucky shakes his head minutely. “Then at this time I ask you to report to Professor Howlett’s classroom for an interview.”

“Interview?” Bucky asks. “With who?”

Fury picks up a stray piece of parchment from his desk and squints at it. “Christine Everhart.”

Both Peggy and Steve turn to look at him in unison, wearing the same strained expression.

Bucky hangs his head and sighs. _Fuck._

***

_Christine Everhart._

She’d famously penned the article calling his coming out a ham-fisted publicity stunt, which led to wands being drawn at a Longhorns press conference. Everhart went on to call him ‘short tempered’ and ‘hot headed’ on the front page of that evening’s Prophet. It seems every week she’s got a new, inventive way of smearing his name and bringing about the temper she so loves to pick apart. She’s good at what she does, and what she does is piss Bucky off until she gets the story she wants.

They no sooner get through the door of Professor Howlett’s classroom than they’re blinded by the flash of a camera.

“Shit! Sorry!” The camera man says.

“Peter?” Steve asks, still rubbing the flare of the bulb from his eyes.

Bucky blinks until the world comes back into focus. Before him stands a Ravenclaw about his own age, maybe younger, who’s face is obscured enough by his camera that Bucky can only see his mop of messy brown hair and a pair of wide eyes behind his thick rimmed glasses. Bucky thinks he remembers him as the boy Fury had spoken to about trespassing in the Forbidden Forest.

“Yeah,” Peter laughs nervously, lowering the camera to rest against his chest. “Sorry again, but the Prophet is great exposure and if I ever want to get my thesis on Acromantula silk out there then I…”

“Parkman, was it?” A voice asks from further into the room. “Make sure you get a good one of Barnes. It’s so rare to see him without blood on his face.”

“It’s…Parker…” Peter says lamely, already lifting the camera to take another photo. The apology goes unspoken but implied as he blinds Bucky again with the flash.

This time when the world comes back to him, Bucky looks over Peter’s shoulder to see Christine Everhart standing at the center of the room, dressed head to toe in shades of grey. She’s already got her journal open and balanced carefully in her palm while she scribbles notes, the inky black feather of her quill twitching with every movement.

“Let’s see…” she says thoughtfully, tapping her chin with her quill. “We’ll need a headline, something catchy. Something to do with the number three. Or maybe tri-…”

“How’s about _try_ -hard journalist has a _try_ ing time coming up with witty titles to hide her shotty journalism,” Peter grumbles from behind the camera, drawing a chuckle out of Bucky just in time for him to catch it with another blinding flash.

Everhart looks up from her journal with a sound that’s equal parts delight and surprise. “Well done, Parkson! You’ve done the impossible,” she says with a grin. “Who knew Barnes could smile?”

“He said his name is Parker,” Bucky says, ignoring the jab intended for him.

“Oh,” Everhart says airily. Bucky might as well have not spoken at all, for all his words seem to get through to her. “That’ll be all, Peterson. Thank you.”

“Close enough,” Peter mumbles, slipping out the door with a defeated slouch to his shoulders.

Bucky can’t help but feel like he’s being lined up before a one-woman firing squad as they settle into the uncomfortable wooden chairs she’s set up for them. By the time Everhart gets herself situated, poised and ready to write with her quill in her hand, Bucky’s already stiff and fidgeting, eager to get this over with. 

“Well, let me just say that it’s no surprise to see the two of you here,” she begins, flicking the point of her quill between himself and Peggy, “but _you_ ,” she turns the quill suddenly on Steve and Bucky doesn’t miss his sharp intake of breath, “who are _you_?” she asks in a way that makes it sound more like an accusation than a question.

Steve swallows hard. “I’m Steve. Rogers. Steve Rogers,” he says.

“So, tell me _Steve Rogers_ ,” Everhart says, poising her quill over her journal, “what makes you so special?” 

Steve shrugs and shakes his head. “Nothin’, I’m just a kid from Brooklyn.”

“ _Just a kid from Brooklyn_ ,” Everhart repeats, obviously disinterested by Steve’s humility. “But the Goblet _chose_ you. Surely there must be something about you that sets you apart?” 

Steve shrugs again. “Maybe that’s a conversation you ought to have with the Goblet, ma’am. As far as I’m concerned, I’m no better than anyone else who volunteered.”

He’s good, Bucky thinks, for someone who’s never done this before. He still remembers his first interview, when he’d sat down across from J. Jonah Jameson and his infamous moustache and endured an hour of ruthless questioning about his arm.

Everhart’s icy eyes narrow. Steve’s giving her nothing to work with and Bucky can see the gears of her malicious mind turning. “And what of your competitors?” She asks finally. “Why do you think _they_ were chosen?” 

For the first time since they’d begun the interview, Steve flushes. “I don’t—I don’t know. It’s hard to pick just one thing, you know? They both do so much, _so much_ for the wizarding world and to pick just one thing would be—,”

“Woah, woah!” Everhart chuckles, scribbling furiously in her journal. “Slow down there, Mr. Rogers. Someone may think you have a crush.”

Steve turns impossibly redder. Everhart notices and begins scribbling another quick note. Bucky watches red ink flow from her quill like blood in the water, blood that Everhart can smell a mile out like the shark that she is. Steve may be good, but this is what makes Everhart great.

“Don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

Bucky doesn’t realize he said that out loud, not until Everhart finishes her note with a flourish and turns to him with a forced grin. “Mr. Barnes. We meet again.”

“Lucky us,” he says, tone flat.

“You gave an impressive performance in the semi-finals,” she says, shifting gears with practiced ease. “With the title match mere days away, how do you think the pressure of the Tournament is going to affect your ability to perform in the Finals?” 

“It won’t,” Bucky says shortly.

Everhart stiffens. “No?” She asks. She sets her quill down and holds his stare. She changes tactics once again, searching for the string of questioning she can pull on to unravel him “How have you been adjusting to life here at Hogwarts, Mr. Barnes?”

“Been doin’ alright,” he says. If vague answers are what she hates, then its vague answers that he’ll give until he’s blue in the face. At least the focus is off of Steve, who looks equal parts thankful and anxious as he watches on from his spot beside Peggy.

“Keeping up in all your classes?” 

“So far.”

“Making your parents _proud_?”

And there it is. Bucky’s already got his hand halfway to his wand by the time Peggy gets an arm across his chest, forcing him back into his seat before he can do anything irrational.

“That was outta line!” Steve snaps.

Everhart arches a brow. “Maybe so…” she says thoughtfully, reaching for her quill to jot something down. “Mr. Barnes, care to comment?” 

“No,” Bucky says stiffly. 

He’s seething, but that’s exactly what she wants. The words ‘short tempered’ and ‘hot headed’ echo around in his memory, making him wonder if Everhart may have been right about him all along. He relaxes back into his seat and Peggy slowly lowers her arm, watching him wearily like she expects him to lash out as soon as she lets her guard down.

“Of course not,” Everhart sighs. “Perhaps you, Miss. Carter?” She asks, turning to Peggy with renewed vigor. “Exciting to see a fellow woman in the games.” 

“Is that what you are then?” Peggy asks brusquely. “And to think, I’d mistaken you for a harpy all this time.”

Bucky glances from Peggy to Everhart, wondering if Everhart can draw her wand faster than Peggy can throw a punch. He looks to Steve only to find that Steve’s already looking at him, wide eyed and tight lipped like he’s about to burst.

Everhart’s cheeks turn red as her ink and she swells in indignation. “Miss Carter, as a supporter of Witch’s Rights, I find it appalling that you would—”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to stop you there,” Peggy says politely, smile and all. “The Witch’s Rights movement doesn’t exist to defend your awful behavior,” she says coolly, “and I’m curious to know what made you believe otherwise.”

Everhart bawks for a moment before finding her voice once more. “Miss Carter, I—”

“—think we’re done here?” Peggy interrupts, already standing to leave. “I couldn’t agree more,” she says.

“Aw, so soon?” Bucky whines. “This was just getting interesting.” 

Everhart stands as well, looking down her nose at Peggy before turning her glare on him. “Always a pleasure, Mr. Barnes,” she says venomously. 

“Wish I could say the same,” he says.

Everhart forces a smile and goes to tuck her journal into her bag, but as she does, the strap snaps, spilling its contents across the floor. Everhart makes to pick it up, but Steve beats her to it, crouching down and stacking her things into a manageable pile before handing them back to her.

“Huh,” she says with a small smile, “good to see one of you has manners.” She turns on her heel and makes quick strides out the door, letting it fall shut heavily behind her.

“Damn, Carter. Where’d that come from?” Bucky asks.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to say that,” Peggy says, sighing like a physical weight has been lifted from her shoulders. “Ever since she wrote that piece about Howard Stark dealing weapons to the Red Skull. That man was many things, a misogynist, a drunk, and a downright ass at times, but he was a family friend. Only a coward attacks a man who isn’t even alive to defend himself.”

“Well, I don’t think she’ll be attacking anyone else any time soon,” Steve says, pulling Everhart’s journal from inside his book bag. 

“Is that what I think it is?” Bucky asks, glancing between the book and Steve’s smirking face.

“I realized we had the same one about halfway through the interview,” Steve says, flicking through the pages casually. “So, I switched them. Hope she likes Arithmancy.”

“How?” Peggy asks.

Steve reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wand, twirling it between his fingers. “Straps are just so flimsy now-a-days, you know? They don’t make ‘em like they used to.”

“Let me see that!” Bucky says, snatching the journal and flipping to today’s page. “I’m not _fifteen_ ,” he shouts indignantly, “and my eyes aren’t _‘swimming with the ghosts of my past’_!” He scans further up the page, glancing over the notes Everhart made on Steve. _Charming. Well-spoken. Humble. Handsome. Easily flustered. BARNES??? _“Though she does make some good points…”

Steve snatches the journal back, ignoring Bucky’s protests as he crosses the room and opens one of Professor Howlett’s windows. The hinges creak with neglect and a cloud of dust is swept into the air on a breeze. Steve hums the journal out the window, watching with a satisfied smirk as it Frisbees through the air.

“Fuck her points,” Steve says to Bucky’s slack jaw, “a good journalist knows how to improvise. Speaking of which,” he crosses the room again and reaches for his book bag, slinging it over his shoulder with a sigh, “I need to get to the library. I have a week’s worth of Arithmancy notes to rewrite.”

“’ _The Theory of Numerology_ ,” Bucky blurts when Steve’s halfway out the door.

“Huh?” Steve asks, glancing over his shoulder.

“It’s um…it’s good,” he says lamely, “helpful.”

Steve smiles. “I’ll check it out. Thanks Buck. I’ll see you, Peg,” he says, letting the door fall shut behind him. Bucky continues to gape at the door long after the sound of Steve’s footsteps are gone.

“Seven,” Peggy says.

It takes Bucky a moment to realize she’s speaking to him. “What?” He asks, turning back to her.

“Seven,” she repeats with a knowing grin. “Quidditch try-outs, Saturday morning, seven o’clock on the pitch.” To Bucky’s curious stare, she shrugs. “Thought you might be interested. For the sake of…athletic interest and…strategic comparison,” she says teasingly.

Bucky scoffs and waves her off, but his mind is already working to come up with an excuse for dragging Rebecca and Natasha out of bed before the crack of dawn.

But just for…athletic…whatever Peggy said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CHAPTER SEVEN:** Quidditch Try-Outs  
>  Steve’s heart skips a beat and he has to refrain from searching the stands too eagerly. It’s a good turnout, considering the hour. The stands are filled mostly by the friends of those who are trying out. Rhodey and Tony sit towards the front, both looking as though they didn’t get a wink of sleep last night, as do Thor’s friends from Hufflepuff. Even Peter Parker has come to join Jane Foster in pretending not to be interested while still regularly peeking over the edge of whatever book is it that they’ve brought with them. 
> 
> That being said, it’s still relatively easy to find Bucky shuffling along the stands with Rebecca and Natasha in tow.
> 
> “Well I’ll be damned.” Sam says with his eyes on the stands above. “What’s he doing here?” 
> 
> “Come to check out the new talent?” Steve suggests, watching as Bucky takes a seat in the row behind Tony and laughs at something he says.
> 
> Clint snorts. “Yeah, he’s come to check out _something_ alright.” He dodges the hard swat he knows is coming for him by mounting his broom and taking to the sky, beginning his practice lap.


	7. Quidditch Try-Outs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh..hi!
> 
> So after the longest mental/scholarly hiatus EVER I am back! I've got two new chapters for you guys (the second one is in it's final stages of editing and hopefully will be up later tonight). Hopefully I'll also be able to get through all the amazingly kind comments you guys have left for me! Thank you for all the support! It's you guys that made me want to get back to this story!!!
> 
> SO ARE YOU READY FOR A CAMEO PARADE THE LIKES OF WHICH YOU’VE NEVER SEEN???
> 
> Obviously, to make a Gryffindor try-out chapter, you need some freakin’ Gryffindors. I apologize if I put a character in here that you believe would be sorted into another house (I can think of two right off that bat that gave me second thoughts), but as I’ve said before, these are my headcannons, and I’m ready to defend them, though I totally respect your ideas as well! You can even tell me about it and I’ll probably respond with a long ass comment about how I agree and then also discuss my own reasoning because my geek ass loves this stuff so much I could talk about it forever.
> 
> As usual there's a little preview for the next chapter at the bottom and I'd LOVE to hear your feedback!
> 
> Without ANY more rambling.... Here's the long awaited Chapter Seven.

Mid-October brings about the start of the Hogwarts Quidditch season, meaning that as the sun rises on Saturday morning, Steve finds himself blinking owlishly at the rowdy bunch of hopefuls gathered in front of him at the center of the pitch.

It doesn’t seem all that long ago that he was standing in their spot, damn near drowning in his oversized jersey and trying his best to ignore the whispered jeers of the boys behind him. That had all gone to Hell, of course, when one of the boys made a snide comment about Captain Danvers, leaving Steve with no choice but to turn around and sock him in the mouth, knocking two pearly white teeth out of his arrogant grin.

When Captain Danvers herself finally pulled him out of the ensuing dog pile, she’d fixed him with a curious stare while attending to his bloody nose. 

“ _You’ve got a lot of nerve going after Ward like that_ ,” she’d said, smiling apologetically when he winced at the touch of the cold, wet cloth in her hand.

“ _Yeah, well, ‘daring, nerve, and chivalry,’ and all that,_ ” he’d said with a hallow laugh. “ _Could’ve used some common sense, too, I guess._ ”

“ _No…_ ” Danvers had said thoughtfully with an approving look, “ _I think we could use a little nerve on this team…_ ”

That was the first season he would suit up in scarlet and gold, but it was far from the last. Steve followed Carol’s lead to five consecutive appearances in the Quidditch Cup finals, three of which lead to victories for Gryffindor. They were still celebrating their latest Quidditch Cup win when she’d pulled him onto the confetti-strewn couch and fixed him with a serious look before offering him the team.

He’d declined her then (and nearly every time after) but Carol Danvers was nothing if not persistent. She cornered him in the library, the Great Hall, the prefect’s bathroom, and even the showers before Steve finally, _finally_ said yes, because any girl who’s willing to get a detention from Erskine for being in the men’s showers must really believe in him.

He tries to keep Danvers’s conviction in mind while he stands in the spot that was once hers. “Can I get everybody’s attention?” He asks politely.

The chatter continues as if he hadn’t even spoken. Amidst the chaos, Wade Wilson is wielding his beater’s bat like a sword, fighting an invisible opponent and repeatedly whacking Sif in the back of the head on every upswing, earning a warning glare from her and a chuckle from Thor. Clint and Second Year Kate Bishop are in a heated argument on who has better aim, chasers or beaters, and Steve can already sense a bet brewing in the air. In the thick of it all, Kamala Khan stands with her shoulders back and eyes bright, grinning like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be than amongst the twenty other hopefuls looking for a spot on the team.

Steve turns to Sam, standing in co-captain position to his left, and gives him a helpless look.

“Use the Captain Voice,” Sam suggests with a shrug.

Steve squares his jaw and turns back to the group. “ALRIGHT, _LISTEN UP_!” Silence falls immediately and Steve can’t help but feel a little smug. “Today I expect to see the best of everyone. Just because you made the team last year, that doesn’t guarantee you a place this year.”

“Wait, _really_?” Clint asks.

“Yes, _really_ ,” Steve says, ignoring the indignant look Clint sends his way. “Before we get started, I’ll need your names, first and last, then the position you’re trying out for. After that, I want you in the sky. Do a lap, then bring it back here. Sam will be timing you. Any questions?”

Wade’s hand shoots into the air. “Snack breaks?”

“No, Wade,” Steve sighs. “Does anyone _else_ have a question?”

When no one speaks up, he points to Sif: a long-time friend of Thor’s and head of the Dueling Club who introduces herself proudly as, “Sif, chaser.”

“ _Siiif_ …” Sam says slowly, writing the name on his parchment. “Is that your first name, or last?” 

Sif’s dark brows come together in confusion. “It is the only name I have,” she says. “I am Sif.”

Steve and Sam share a quick glance. “Alright,” Steve says, “take a lap…uh…Sif.”

She takes to the sky, black hair whipping behind her in the morning winds. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Sam leans in towards Steve. “Is it _S-I-P-H_ or _S-I-F_?” He whispers, quill hovering an inch over his parchment.

Steve shrugs helplessly, leaving Sam to scowl at the roster. 

“Kate Bishop, Chaser,” steps forward and Steve can’t help but notice the numerous bandages and bruises marring her face. He watches with a skeptical eye as Kate kicks off the ground and wobbles unsteadily into the air.

“You _have_ flown before, right?” Clint asks, voicing Steve’s own concerns.

“Oh yeah, sure!” She says, all confidence and bravado as she struggles to find her balance. “Loads of times!”

“That explains the bandages,” Clint mumbles to Thor over his shoulder.

Steve watches Kate take her lap wearily; keeping in mind the entire time that Madame Temple is ready at a moment’s notice in the hospital wing, probably waiting by the door with a tired expression and a sling already made up. 

Next up is “Wade Wilson, Beater, but I’ll take what I can,” who’s seen his fair share of tryouts, not one of which has been successful. While he may play well enough, Carol always said he was too much of a loose cannon to be a dependable part of the team.

Steve can see what she meant by that. As Wade passes by the stands on his lap around the pitch, he freezes mid-air and Steve can hear him shout, “HOLY SHIT. IS THAT BUCKY BARNES?”

Steve’s heart skips a beat and he has to refrain from searching the stands too eagerly. It’s a good turnout, considering the hour. The stands are filled mostly by the friends of those who are trying out. Rhodey and Tony sit towards the front, as do Thor and Sif’s friends from Hufflepuff. Even Peter Parker has come to join Jane Foster in pretending not to be interested while still regularly peeking over the edge of whatever book it is that they’ve brought with them. 

That being said, it’s still relatively easy to find Bucky shuffling along the stands with Rebecca and Natasha in tow.

“Well I’ll be damned.” Sam says with his eyes on the stands above. “What’s he doing here?” 

“Come to check out the new talent?” Steve suggests.

Clint snorts. “Yeah, he’s come to check out _something_ alright.” He dodges the hard swat he knows is coming for him by mounting his broom and taking to the sky, beginning his practice lap. “Barton, Beater!” He calls hastily over his shoulder.

Steve scowls at his back before turning to Sam. “Add ten seconds on his time,” he snaps.

“He’d still have a better time than Wilson,” Sam says, glancing up from his wrist watch to where Wade is currently clamoring up the stands towards Bucky. Tony seems to be getting a kick out of it, at least. Steve can hear him laughing all the way from here. Peter Parker doesn’t seem nearly as amused, standing abruptly from his seat and stuffing ‘ _Acromantulas: The Gentle Giants_ ’ hastily into his book bag as he storms from the stands.

“Besides, what would Danvers say if she knew you were messing with the stats?”

“Carol trusted me to take charge of this team and I’m not gonna let her down.” Steve says seriously, watching as Wade tackles Bucky, knocking him back between the seats. 

At the mention of Gryffindor’s former Captain, Kamala Khan perks up. Steve recognizes her from the front row of every Quidditch match last year, where she’d shouted herself hoarse whenever Captain Danvers flew by her, blowing Kamala’s scarlet scarf around her head as she passed. 

“Kamala Khan,” she introduces herself proudly, “Seeker.” After a moment, her confident demeanor cracks and she bursts into a fit of excited laugher. “Wow,” she sighs, “I’ve been waiting all my life to say that!”

“Says the Second Year,” Sam says with a chuckle while he takes down her name, “I have t-shirts older than you.”

“I’m twelve!” Kamala snaps defensively.

“Like I said,” Sam says.

“I think that says more about you than her,” Steve says, earning a glowing smile from Kamala and a scowl from Sam. With a sly grin in his friend’s direction, he turns back to Kamala. “Take your lap. And don’t let him get in your head, alright?”

They work their way through the rest of this year’s hopefuls fairly quickly. With everyone back on the ground, Steve opens his mouth to divide the group by position and carry on with the try-outs from there, but he’s interrupted by a tap on the shoulder from Sam.

“Uh, Steve,” he says, pointing towards the tunnel leading on to the field, “I think we got another one.”

Steve turns to see Matt Murdock coming down the tunnel, armed with his broom in one hand and a long white cane in the other, sweeping it from left to right as he makes his way on to the field. His ever-present shades glint red in the light of the rising sun.

“Is that Murdock?” Sam asks. “I didn’t even know he played,” Sam says.

“Neither did I,” Steve says, but Matt’s scarlet and gold warm up jersey is evidence enough of his intentions.

“I’m not too late, am I?” Matt asks. “Couldn’t really see the time, so…”

Steve’s not quite sure if he should laugh at that or not, though Matt seems to be smiling. “Nope, we’re just getting started.” Steve says.

“Steve, I don’t know about this…” Sam says uneasily. 

“Let me talk to him, alright?” Steve says, already hoisting his broom onto his shoulder and walking towards Matt. “Divvy up the teams, get a game going. I’ll be right there.”

“Alright, man. You’re the captain.”

It’s been four years since Steve first met Matt Murdock, but he still has a hard time seeing him as anything more than the First Year he’d carried out of Professor Summers’s classroom after a freak cauldron explosion. Even now, as he crosses the field to meet him, Steve can’t believe that this is the same boy who’d clung to his shoulders, screaming for his father as the world went dark around him.

“Matt, I—,” Steve says when he’s close enough to be heard.

“Don’t,” Matt says, interrupting him in a way that still somehow seems polite. “Don’t do that.”

“Do…what?” Steve asks.

“That thing,” Matt says, “that thing where you pity me. I’m here to try out, just like everyone else.”

Steve nods, understanding and respecting what Matt’s saying, but still… “Matt, this isn’t about pity. Quidditch is a dangerous sport. Given your disability, I don’t think—”

“Clint’s half deaf. You let him play, no questions asked!” Matt argues. 

Steve remembers hearing once that Matt wants to be a lawyer—advocate for those who don’t have the means to defend themselves—and right about now, Steve’s seeing his potential in the field.

“I know, but that’s one thing. Being blind is—,” 

“Is what?” Matt asks, raising his brows expectantly, waiting for the answer that Steve can’t give. “Why don’t you hand me the quaffle and we’ll see what being blind is,” Matt smiles wryly, “well, _you’ll_ see, anyway.” 

Against his better judgment, Steve agrees. 

“Watch and learn,” Matt says before taking off into the sky.

Steve mounts his broom as well and takes off a moment later, heading to the posts to watch with bated breath as Matt swoops around the field. It’s amazing, the way he flies, almost like he’s gliding with the wind, letting it guide him. He deftly dodges the other players in the air, weaving between them like he’s got the field mapped out behind his tinted frames. 

Thor pulls up beside him, watching Matt with the same weary expression. “This is unfair,” he says. 

Steve shakes his head. “Unfair would be telling him he couldn’t try out,” he says. 

With his mind made up, Steve gives the orders to the other players awaiting his call. “Murdock, you’re with Sam’s team! We’re gonna run a scrimmage. I’ll be looking for shooting and defensive skills as well as your ability to work together!”

The players fall into formation. Thor casts one last grim look at Steve but takes off down the field regardless, taking his position across the field from Clint.

Matt takes the position of center chaser with Sam in left field and Kate to his right. The quaffle hangs in the air in front of him. Steve lifts the captain’s whistle to his lips and wonders if he imagined the cocksure smirk playing at the corner of Matt’s lips.

On the whistle, the quaffle launches into the air and Matt moves with a quickness Steve couldn’t have predicted, nor could Sif, apparently, who he pushes aside in a fight for the ball that leaves her tangled in her scarlet try-out robe.

Matt continues down the field, passing the quaffle deftly between Kate and Sam, somehow always knowing where they’ll be or otherwise carrying it downfield himself. Clint swoops in, firing a bludger aimed directly at the boy’s chest. Steve prepares for the impact, but it never comes. Matt ducks out of the way, evading the bludger with ease.

Steve watches with a slack jaw as Matt glides between Thor and Clint, dodging their bodies as well as their bludgers. After the first couple swings, Steve can tell that neither Thor nor Clint is pulling any punches anymore. They’re giving it their best, but even with their combined efforts they still can’t land a hit on Matt. 

And when he takes his shot on Steve, he shoots low left and sends the quaffle speeding past Steve’s outstretched leg, fast and hard enough to leave a sizable dent in the rafters behind the posts.

Steve chuckles in awe. “Holy shit,” he says. His smile wavers a bit when he realizes that he’ll have to explain the damage to Fury, but applause from the crowd pulls him away from that troublesome thought. 

“ATTA BOY MATTY!” Foggy Nelson cheers, backed up by the whooping of Karen Page beside him, having traded in their black and yellow scarves for scarlet and gold in a show of support. Matt smiles sheepishly and waves to them, somehow knowing the exact place they’re sitting. Steve’s eyes fall on the opposite side of the stands to where Bucky is cheering as well, whistling loud and clear with his fingers caught between his lips.

“Okay, I’m calling a do-over!” Clint shouts, pointing his bludger accusingly at Matt.

“Come on, Clint; give your ass a break,” Sam says, pulling up beside Matt to clap him on the shoulder proudly, “seeing as how it just got _kicked_ so hard.”

“And what a pleasure it was to have my ass kicked by an athlete as fine as yourself!” Thor bellows.

“Alright, that’s what I like to see out there!” Steve says. “Rotate out! Let’s make sure everyone’s playing the positions they want! Sif, I want you in right field against Sam! And Wade—Steve pauses, noticing for the first time the empty space in the air where Wade should be. He looks back to the stands where Wade is still seated next to Bucky, uncomfortably close with his hands on his chin like a love struck child. “Wade, are you…”

“Nope!” Wade shouts without prying his loving gaze from Bucky’s profile. “I’ll stay _right_ here.”

And Merlin help him, Steve can’t say he blames him.

After the scrimmage, Steve ends the practice with drills lasting the rest of the hour, ending just as the Ravenclaw team wanders onto the field, eager to begin their own tryouts. After careful deliberation and consultation with Sam, Steve decides on the final team.

“Starting Chasers,” Steve announces to the crowd after having gathered in the locker room, “I want Wilson, Bishop, and Murdock. Beaters, Barton and Odinson.”

“Gimme the thunder,” Clint says, holding up his fist for Thor to bump. “BOOM!” they shout in unison when their fists collide. 

“Five years running!” Thor shouts while Clint winces and shakes his hand, glaring at Thor’s biceps.

“Keeper…” Steve says awkwardly, “Um, Steve Rogers...”

“Damn, I really hate that guy,” Clint stage whispers.

“And finally, for our Seeker. Well, that seems pretty obvious…” He grins at Kamala, who still holds the fluttering snitch in her hand.

***

Despite the cuts made, the chatter in the locker room remains friendly as ever. Steve can overhear snatches of conversation while simultaneously listening as Wade goes into explicit detail about a dream he once had about Bucky and a chimichanga.

“…so after that, I’m like, _woah_ , you know?” He concludes, wrestling his t-shirt over his head. “Ran out and bought a poster the next day.”

Steve tosses a careful glance over his shoulder to where Clint and Kate are talking aerodynamics and wind speed before ducking behind his locker and dropping his voice to a whisper. “The one with the dragon, right?”

Wade’s face lights up at the same moment the locker room goes deathly silent, something that usually only happens after a particularly hard loss. Steve turns around to see Bucky standing in the doorway.

“Hey,” he says with an easy grin. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

One by one, every head turns towards Steve until it feels as though there might as well be a spotlight on him. He swallows thickly, willing the words to come but none do. Thankfully, Wade is there to fill the silence.

“You know, I’ve had at least ten sexual fantasies that began with a scenario scarily similar to this one,” he says.

“On that note, I’m out,” Sam says. “Got a ten inch essay due for Darkhölme, figure I’d better get a jump on it.” He nudges Thor in the ribs as he passes, hardly being discreet.

“I, too, must leave.” Thor says. “The constellation Aquarius will be in sight tonight. Jane and I have plans to record it in our Astrological journals,” he explains, shouldering his own bag and taking his leave.

The room empties steadily, each excuse more flimsy than the last until only Clint is left. “And I’m just gonna go…away,” he says vaguely, not even bothering to come up with an excuse for his hasty exit.

“Was it something I said?” Bucky asks, looking apologetic as he comes further into the room.

Much like Wade, Steve can think of ten dreams off the top of his head that began with this same scenario.

“You got some real talent out there.” Bucky says, pulling Steve from his thoughts and coming to sit on the bench behind him. “That Murdock kid, he’s somethin’.” 

Steve shakes himself into the present and even manages a laugh. “I’ll say. He could be some serious competition for you coming down the line,” he teases.

Bucky laughs. “I was thinking we ought to recruit him,” he says. “Make a team and sound like the start of a bad joke. ‘ _How many disabled Chasers does it take to catch a quaffle?_ ’” 

Steve chuckles and continues to throw his clothes in his locker. “You could be on to something there, you know. Be great for kids to see a team like that in the league.” 

Bucky hums thoughtfully. “Merlin knows I coulda used it growing up.”

“I hear you.”

“You?” Bucky asks, narrowing his eyes skeptically. “What? Too many muscles? All the other kids make fun of you for deadlifting buses?”

Steve laughs and nods solemnly. “I know. Kinda hard to believe now,” he says. “Didn’t always look like this, though,” he adds, taking out the lone photograph taped in his locker and offering it to Bucky. “See for yourself.”

Bucky takes the photo, glancing between it and Steve a few times before shaking his head. “That’s not you,” he says adamantly.

“It is!” Steve says with a laugh.

“Come on, how old were you?” Bucky asks. “Six?”

“Ten,” Steve corrects, “small for my age.”

“I’ll say,” Bucky says, handing the picture back to Steve. “That your old man with you?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, running his finger over the frayed edges of the photograph as he tucks it back into the corner of his locker. His younger self smiles back at him from beneath the weight of his father’s arm. He remembers that day clearly, the Father-Son Field Day they’d held in Central Park the year before Steve left for Hogwarts. “He’s, um, he’s not around anymore.”

Bucky frowns and hangs his head. “I’d say I’m sorry, but I know how much I hate it when people say it to me, so…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve says, shutting his locker gently. He can sense the question hanging in the air and Bucky’s hesitance to ask it. “Killing curse,” he says, “from the Skull himself.”

“Shit,” Bucky says under his breath.

“Yeah,” Steve says, “shit.”

Bucky looks up and smiles, just a small one, just a barely-there curve to his lips, “Guess we got more in common than just Quidditch, huh, troublemaker?”

“Again, with the troublemaker?” Steve asks, feigning annoyance as he turns to leave, though he’s grateful for the change of subject. “I haven’t gotten into any trouble since you got here.”

“Correction,” Bucky says, following after Steve with effortless swagger, hands in his pockets and a grin on his face, “you haven’t gotten _caught_ since I got here.”

Steve grins. “And how would you know that?”

Bucky shrugs, so exaggerated that his shoulders nearly reach his ears before he drops them with a chuckle. “Maybe I overheard Quill talking about how _you_ cornered the kids who gave him a shiner for saving a frog in Phillips’s class.”

Steve feels a now familiar flush creeping up the back of his neck. “Quill’s a good kid,” he says evasively.

“Seems to be a trend with you Hogwarts punks,” Bucky teases, passing Steve and continuing on ahead.

“And what about you, huh?” Steve asks, rushing to catch up. “Rumor has it someone’s been leaving textbooks outside the kitchen every morning,” he says. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“How’d you hear about that?” Bucky asks evasively.

“Connections,” Steve says, “Wally, actually. He’s quite taken with _Household Charms for the Helplessly Hopeless_.”

Bucky offers only a tight lipped grin and another shrug, which is as good as a confession in Steve’s book, given the glint in his eyes. 

“Well,” Steve says, playing along for Bucky’s sake, “if you find out who’s behind it…”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Bucky promises.

They turn the corner and nearly run headlong into Peter Quill, who is holding yet another frog that he’s no doubt just sprung from Professor Phillips’s classroom, saving it the peril of another demonstration.

“Hey, Captain Rogers!” Quill squeaks, quickly hiding the frog behind his back. “I was just looking for you. I meant to ask, are we still on for tomorrow night?”

“Sure are…” Steve says. He nods over Quill’s shoulder. “You can even bring your friend.”

Quill’s eyes grow to the size of saucers. “I’m just putting him outside, I swear,” he says with a defiant jut to his chin, like he’s waiting to see if Steve will report him to a Prefect.

Steve steps aside, creating a space between him and Bucky for Peter to run through. “Not on the pitch, alright?” He calls to Quill’s back.

“You got it, Cap!”

“Tomorrow night?” Bucky asks when the sound of Quill’s footsteps have faded away into silence.

“Oh, yeah,” Steve says, forcing a laugh. “Uh, before you got here—well, not that it matters that you’re here now, well, it does matter because it’s great that you’re here, but I don’t want you to think we’re only doing it because you’re here, it’s just a coincidence that—”

“Steve?” Steve looks up to see Bucky fighting a grin.

He sighs and laughs at himself. “It’s sort of Gryffindor tradition that everyone listens to the Cup Finals in the common room.”

“Shit, that’s tomorrow?” Bucky teases, earning himself a well-deserved punch in the shoulder.

“You’d better win. I’ve got 50 galleons on you.” Steve says. “Quill doesn’t think you’ll break the record.”

“Oh yeah? And what’s in it for me if I do?” Bucky asks.

“Besides being a Quidditch Champion, living legend, and the only player to score 1,000 points in a single season?”

“Maybe I’m after something better than all’a that.” Bucky says, soft and earnest and dripping with a familiar gentle Brooklyn rumble. 

Steve thinks he must have imagined the way Bucky’s voice dropped into a flirtatious purr, because that voice is reserved for the pretty girls and boys Bucky gets photographed with in the shadows, away from the prying eyes that would have them believing there’s anyone else but Bucky in the world.

“Figure you could have anything you want,” Steve says regardless, because for now it’s enough to pretend that the darkened corridors are a shadowed alley and the glint in Bucky’s eye means more than a playful tease between friends.

“Anything I want?” Bucky echoes, smiling like he’s won the Cup already as he turns to leave, “I’m holding you to that, you know,” he calls over his shoulder.

Steve wants to follow, but he feels frozen to the spot. Instead he can only watch as Bucky disappears around the corner, humming happily to himself. 

“I hope you do,” he whispers to whom he thought was only himself, but he swears he hears Bucky chuckle from out of sight.

***

“ _And it’s Barnes to Dvorak, Dvorak back to Barnes and ANOTHER POINT, ROMANIA!_ ”

The applause starts up again, startling the sleeping portraits with their thunderous sound. Steve thinks he can hear a _Rrrr-ibbit!_ somewhere in there and narrows his eyes at the suspicious lump in Quill’s shirt pocket.

The Gryffindor common room is a sea of green and gold as students from all Houses gather around the ancient radio and listen as the Romanian Longhorns take on the New Zealand Nymphs. To his right, Tony stands on the couch cushions, waving the Romanian flag back and forth while leading the crowd in a chant of, “LONG-HORNS, LONG-HORNS, LONG-HORNS!” and to his left, Sam blows into his Longhorns megaphone, which produces the deafening and realistic sound of the dragon’s roar.

“Shut up, shut up, I can’t hear!” Clint says, though his voice is muffled by a realistic Longhorn mask, complete with nostrils that shoot flames at his will. “Someone turn it up!”

A hand reaches up to turn the dial until the voice of the announcer can be heard above the noise. “ _I’ll tell you, if I weren’t seeing it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it. That’s Barnes’s 25th goal tonight, tying him with the previous record!_ ”

“You hear that, Quill?” Steve calls across the room, cupping his hand to his ear. “Think that’s the sound of 50 galleons in my pocket.”

“You might want to get your hearing checked, old man,” Quill shouts back. “He’s still one goal short!”

“Give it up, Quill!” Clint shouts. “The record’s his!”

A hard knock brings Steve’s attention to the portrait hole. He hops from the couch and wades through the crowd, dodging the sloshing butterbeer and hastily thrown elbows. When he reaches the portrait hole, he pushes it forward, revealing the two people he was least expecting on the other side.

“Natasha?” Steve asks, even as the girl herself breezes past him, wearing war paint reminiscent of the poster above Steve’s bed. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Clint hastily tug his mask off and toss it across the room, nailing Sam in the back of the head and earning a loaded glare in return.

“Barnes told us you were having a party,” she says, scanning the room in a way that has Steve wondering if maybe the streamers were a little too much. “Didn’t take you for the type, Rogers.”

“That’s me,” he says feebly, “full of surprises.”

“You sure are,” Natasha says, turning her unnerving stare on him. “Nice shirt, by the way.”

Steve looks down at himself and blushes. When he’d pulled out the jersey earlier, Sam had given him a knowing smirk while Clint and Tony had broken out into a rousing chorus of, “ _Bucky, I love you! Bucky, I do! When we’re apart, my heart beats only for you!_ ” He’d forgotten he was wearing it until now, but that does him little good as he watches the jersey change from pink to purple, well on its way to blue by the time he meets Natasha’s eye again.

“Did we miss anything?” Rebecca asks, clamoring through the portrait hole decked out from head to toe in Longhorns garb. Steve hardly recognizes her beneath all the face paint. “Did he break a thousand points yet?”

Steve is grateful for the change of subject. “Last I heard he’s a goal short,” he says, choosing to focus on Rebecca’s scowl rather than Natasha’s smirk. “Shouldn’t you be at the game?” He asks.

Rebecca’s scowl only deepens. “Students aren’t allowed off grounds, Fury’s orders. Bucky’s got a pardon since he’s playing,” she explains in a whining tone that suggests she’s no stranger to being on the short end of her brother’s special treatment.

“She tried to hide in his equipment bag,” Natasha says smartly. “It was very convincing until she sneezed.”

I would have liked to see you do any better!” Rebecca snaps. “It reeks like something died in there!” With that she leaves them in favor of shouldering her way to the front of the room, making a spot for herself closest to the radio. “Natasha, come on!” She calls.

Natasha turns to consider Steve for a moment before deciding something. “You, too,” she says, curling her arm around his to drag him through the crowd. He can almost feel Clint’s jealousy radiating from somewhere in the room and wonders if he won’t be the one with ‘TRAITOR’ burned across his forehead for years to come.

Natasha gets them to the front of the room with only minimal butterbeer sloshed onto their clothes. It’s hotter up here, but the energy is electric as everyone clings to the announcer’s every word.

“ _With a staggering 210 point lead, Romania has already secured their victory, but there is still some unfinished business left in the air tonight. One thing seems to be on the mind of every Longhorn and that’s ‘Get the quaffle to Barnes!’_ ”

“Come on, Buck!” Rebecca shouts, gripping the radio tight and giving it a shake as if it were her own brother.

“ _It is a neck and neck battle for the snitch, but the Nymphs aren’t going down without a fight. Man to man coverage on every player, making the pass game near impossible. But, wait—I CAN’T BELIEVE IT! I CAN NOT BELIEVE IT!_ ”

“ _WHAT?_ ” Rebecca shouts, giving the radio a hard whack.

“ _I HAVE NEVER SEEN THIS BEFORE! PIOTR RASPUTIN IS IN PLAY! RASPUTIN HAS LEFT THE POSTS, GIVING THE LONGHORNS THE MAN-ADVANTAGE THEY NEEDED OVER THIS NYMPHS DEFENSE!_ ”

“ _YES!_ ” Rebecca whoops, throwing an arm around Steve and Natasha and crushing them to her side.

“ _And it’s Rasputin, using that frankly colossal bulk he’s got, that gives Barnes the edge over his defender. Barnes is off with the Quaffle! He’s headed straight for the posts! HE SHOOTS—,_ ”

Steve doesn’t breathe for the next second, and whether that’s from his own nerves or Rebecca’s arm around his throat, he’s not sure.

“ _AND SCORES! BARNES SHOOTS LOW LEFT, STRAIGHT THROUGH THE POST AND INTO THE HISTORY BOOKS! BARNES BREAKS THE THOUSAND POINT, SINGLE SEASON RECORD!_ ”

Sparks and streamers fly overhead as the balloons floating in the rafters above burst over the frenzied crowd. Even the portraits give up on their sleep and begrudgingly join the applause. Tony starts up a new chant of ‘BARNES! BARNES! BARNES!’ and the roar of Sam’s megaphone shakes the floorboards beneath them.

“HE DID IT!” Rebecca shouts, tears streaming down her painted cheeks. “HE DID IT! HE DID IT! HE DID IT!”

Steve grins and picks her up, throwing her into the waiting hands of the crowd with ease. While she surfs around the room, cheering herself hoarse, Natasha steps into her empty space, watching with crossed arms and a tight grin. “He did it,” she says quietly, meeting Steve’s eyes as her lips spread with a proud grin.

The announcer continues to shout over the noise of the crowd. “ _AND IN THE EXCITEMENT, THE LONGHORNS CATCH THE SNITCH! THE ROMANIAN LONGHORNS ARE YOUR NEW QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP CHAMPIONS!_ ”

The applause, if at all possible, only grows louder. More students surf around the room, more fireworks burst overhead, and all Steve can think about is Bucky. He wonders if he’s laughing, or smiling, or flying celebratory laps around the pitch with the wind in his face. He doesn’t need to wait long to find out.

“ _It is a scene here tonight, folks, as the Longhorns team dog piles Barnes at the center of the pitch. I don’t know what got into him tonight, but watching him play has been nothing short of magical. This is a night that neither Barnes nor the hundred thousand fans packed in the stands will soon forget. We go now to our field correspondent who’s standing by with Barnes, just as soon as she can get him out from under that pile of happy Longhorns…_ ”

“SHUT UP, SHUT UP!” Rebecca shouts, scrambling to ride the crowd back towards the front of the room. “STEVE, TURN IT UP!”

And Steve does, turning the dial until the reporter’s tinny voice crackles over the dated speakers. 

“ _I’m here with the man of the hour, Bucky Barnes._ ” She pauses to let the applause swell around them. It lasts a full minute before dying down enough for her to be heard. “ _Bucky, how do you feel right now?_ ”

“ _Tired_ ,” Bucky sighs, and he truly sounds it. His laughter is a cross between a pant and a chuckle.

“ _And no wonder why. 1000 points in a single season, that’s a new record!_ ” The applause swells again, this time peppered with chants of Bucky’s name. 

“ _Is it?_ ” Bucky asks, not even to be coy, but rather because he sounds too exhausted for the weight of the statement to settle in. “ _That’s…that’s great._ ” 

“ _Talk to me about that last goal_ ,” the reporter asks. “ _Low left, not your usual style._ ”

“ _No, it’s not,_ ” Bucky agrees, “ _but I saw something new today and thought I’d try it out. I owe Matt Murdock for that one. Remember that name, alright? He’s gonna be big someday._ ”

“Holy _shit!_ ” Steve can hear Foggy Nelson’s voice clear across the room and when he turns, he sees the back of Nelson’s blond, shaggy head while he hugs a completely stoic Matt, who’s either frozen with shock or has very recently been Petrified.

“ _A friend of yours?_ ” The reporter asks in interest. “ _Or a **friend** of yours?_ ”

“ _Hey, come on now!_ ” Bucky chuckles.

“ _Come on, Barnes, I’ve got to ask_ ,” she says playfully, “ _is there anyone special?_ ” 

The room swells with childish ‘ _Oooh_ ’s’. Steve glances surreptitiously over his shoulder, just to be sure not everyone is staring at him. Bucky pauses and Steve’s heart doesn’t beat quite right until he answers. 

“ _Yeah, I’ve got my eye on someone._ ”

Steve’s torn between being hopeful and being realistic. On the one hand, Bucky’s got his eye on someone at Hogwarts, and he is most certainly a someone, but there are also 1,199 other someone’s that may have Bucky’s attention. Still, he has to smother his cheer as a cough, turning away from Natasha as he does.

“I wonder who that could be,” Natasha says thoughtfully.

“You mean you don’t know?” Steve asks.

“I only _act_ like I know everything, Rogers,” she says, though her grin tells another story entirely.

“ _Lastly, Bucky, how are you gonna celebrate tonight?_ ”

“ _With eight hours of sleep._ ” Bucky says. “ _That’s how everyone should be celebrating; it’s late, isn’t it? Rebecca, if you’re listening to this, go to bed!_ ” 

“Dork!” Rebecca shouts. Steve doesn’t dispute it, though he finds it hopelessly endearing. 

“ _Alright, go get some rest. You earned it! And congratulations again to the entirety of the Longhorn’s team for their legendary performances here tonight._ ”

“Well, come on, what are we waiting for?” Clint shouts, hopping onto one of the streamer-strewn coffee tables. “We’ve gotta be there when he gets back!”

The crowd shouts their approval and begins their stampede towards the door.

“But it’s after hours!” Rhodey shouts, hoping onto another table across the room. His horned helmet sits lopsidedly on his head, a gift that Tony bestowed on him before forcibly dragging him from his desk to join the party. Steve caught him multiple times during the night casting longing glances towards the stairwell to the dormitories, no doubt thinking about Darkhölme’s ten-inch essay due Monday morning. 

“What is life without a little risk?” Tony asks, earning a round of applause as he hops onto the table beside Clint, throwing his arm over the other’s shoulders in a show of allegiance.

“Generally, safer,” Rhodey says, crossing his arms.

“What do you think, Steve?” Tony asks suddenly, putting Steve on the spot in a way only Tony Stark can.

“Yeah!” Clint shouts, “What do you say Steve?”

Steve glances between Rhodey’s weary expression and the hopeful looks around the room. He weighs the pros and cons: a week’s detention for everyone found out of bed versus being there for Bucky when he walks through the door… 

“Let’s do it,” Steve decides, as if there was a debate in the first place.

“Why do I even bother…” Rhodey grumbles, hopping off the table with a resigned sigh.

Steve leads the way through the portrait hole. He glances left and right, making sure the coast is clear before creeping slowly into the darkened hall. Thankfully, the Fat Lady is asleep tonight, humming between rumbling snores. The same goes for nearly all other portraits lining the darkened halls. Every once and a while, the light of Steve’s wand will rouse one of the subjects enough to warrant a scathing complaint before drifting back to sleep. 

They make it as far as the third floor before running into Professor Erskine, bed rumpled with a cup of chamomile tea in his hand. Steve skids to a halt but Clint, who’s too busy showing Natasha pictures of Lucky to notice, collides against his back, followed by Tony, Thor, and Rhodey, causing a pile up that knocks Steve straight into Erskine’s chest. He steps back, chancing a sheepish glance at the amused face of his Head of House.

“Mr. Rogers,” Erskine says, “why am I not surprised to see you out of bed at this hour?”

“What did I say?” Rhodey whispers, appealing to the group of Second Years behind him. “You heard me say this was a bad idea, right?”

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Steve says, “we were just—we were only—”

“Sneaking off to greet Barnes upon his arrival?” Erskine finishes with a knowing grin.

Steve’s shoulders sag in defeat. “Yes, sir.”

“Well,” Erskine says, surveying the wide eyed crowd, “you’re in luck. It seems as though your Head of House has fallen asleep after a cup of tea and could not possibly conduct a headcount…”

Steve looks up slowly to meet his Professor’s twinkling eyes. Professor Erskine winks and steps aside, feigning a yawn. “You’d best hurry. While I myself may be a rather heavy sleeper, I know Professor Phillips is up at the sound of a fallen feather.”

“Thank you, Professor!” Steve says. “Thank you!”

Erskine smiles and passes on through the crowd. “And Mr. Rhodes,” he says as he goes, “do, how do you say it…lighten up, won’t you?”

Rhodey’s expression is priceless as he watches Erskine retreat towards his chambers. He turns back to the crowd, who all stare at him expectantly.

“Alright, alright,” he sighs, pressing the button on his hat that makes the horns glow golden, “let’s go.”

By far the most difficult part is getting nearly two hundred students across the spinning stairs without losing anyone, but it’s well worth it when they reach the main entrance. The crowd gathers around the tall wooden doors and buzzes with anticipation. Steve tries to stay towards the middle, but a firm hand catches him by the wrist and drags him to the front.

“Rebecca?” Steve asks.

“He’ll want to see you,” she shouts, her brown curls bouncing as she runs, “believe me!”

When they arrive at the doors, Natasha is already there with her ear pressed against the thick mahogany. 

“Well, do you hear anything?” Tony asks, laying an ear on the door himself.

“Not yet,” Natasha says, sounding like a mother speaking to a petulant child. “Give him time.”

It’s another twenty minutes before Natasha steps away from the door with a grin. “He’s here,” she says, taking one of the heavy iron knockers in her hand. She nods for Rebecca to take the other, which she does, and together they pull. The doors open with a deep creek and the warm orange light of the castle spills out over the lawn, bathing Bucky in its glow.

He barely has time to blurt out an awed, “What?” before the crowd rushes around him, dragging Steve along with the current. Rebecca races forward and launches herself into her brother’s arms. He catches her easily and spins on the spot, laughing into her curls.

“Thought I told you to be in bed early?” Bucky says.

“Natasha said it was okay!” Rebecca argues. When she pulls away, she leaves half her golden face paint smeared in Bucky’s hair, not that he seems to mind.

“Well, if Natasha says…” Bucky says.

“Give it a rest, Barnes,” Natasha says fondly. “Besides, it was Steve’s idea.”

Steve gawks at her, shaking his head adamantly, trying to find the words to deny it as Bucky turns his amused smirk on him. “Well, if it isn’t the troublemaker,” he says, “out after hours.”

“No, no,” Steve says evasively, looking around the frenzied crowd, “it was _Clint’s_ idea, he’s here somewhere… I’m just here looking for Quill, he owes me 50 Galleons.”

Bucky laughs. “Which reminds me,” he says, and maybe it’s just the tiredness that adds the rumble to his voice, but Steve would like to pretend otherwise, “you still figure I can have anything I want?” 

Steve’s attention snaps back to Bucky. He forgets about finding Quill in the crowd and focuses on the cocky grin and tilted jaw in front of him. “Well, I think you earned it, don’t you?”

Bucky opens his mouth to speak, but he’s cut short by loud complaints as Tony shoulders his way towards them.

“Excuse me, coming though…” Tony says, pushing his way to the forefront. “Barnes, tell me… How’d she handle?” He asks, looking equal parts nervous and hopeful. “And don’t butter me up just because I know where you sleep.”

“Like a dream,” Bucky says with a grin, pulling his broomstick from its holster on his back. “Hit 150, no problem.”

Tony’s face splits into a wide grin, dropping all sense of doubt. “I knew she would!” He announces to the crowd.

“In fact…” Bucky says, “the whole team wants one, if you think you’re up to the challenge.”

Tony’s eyes light up. “Well…” he says, trying to remain casual, “got to give the people what they want…that’s…that’s simple supply and demand.” He takes Bucky’s broom, making it all of three steps towards the dungeons before breaking out into a sprint, no doubt headed for the common room where he can work by the light of the fire until Pepper has to forcibly drag him away.

So concerned is Steve with watching Tony push-tackle-and-shove his way through the crowd that he doesn’t notice the ball of light moving shakily down the corridor until it’s too late.

“What in Merlin’s name is going on here?”

Steve, as well as every other head in the crowd, turns to see Professor Phillips storming down the hall. His sleeping cap sits slightly askew on his head, the pom-pom at the end swinging back in forth in front of his indignant expression.

The ensuing silence is almost comical, quiet enough that the sound of Phillip’s slippers shuffling against the floors is audible as he draws ever closer. It isn’t until Phillips is nearly upon them that the gravity of the situation sets in and the silence is disturbed by Clint’s panicked shout.

“EVERYBODY RUN!”

“What did I tell you?” Rhodey shouts to no one in particular, glancing over his shoulder in the midst of the ensuing stampede. “ _What did I tell you_? I hope this was worth it!”

Steve has half the mind to agree with him, wondering if all of this was really worth it, but then he catches a glimpse of Bucky running towards the dungeons. With one hand he throws Rebecca over his shoulder and with the other he catches Natasha’s wrist and pulls her around the sharp corner. Just before he can disappear down the stairs, he glances over the shoulder not currently supporting his irate sister and meets Steve’s eye, grinning wide.

And it’s worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CHAPTER EIGHT:** The Forbidden Forest
> 
> Bucky rises from his seat and purposefully ignores the curious glance Natasha is sending him. Steve is out the door already and Bucky follows close behind. They walk side by side in unison, Steve seeming to have caught on to the fact that Bucky’s leading the way on this one and that they need to be quick. He glances over his shoulder to make sure they haven’t been followed before grabbing Steve and tugging him behind the hanging tapestry that he knows conceals one of the dozens of passageways hidden around the castle.
> 
> He swings Steve around and pins him to the wall, keeping his fists balled in the fabric of his button down. He hits the wall with a soft Thud! that knocks the breath of him, leaving him looking at Bucky all doe-eyed and slack-jawed. Bucky fights to remain focused.
> 
> “You told me if I won the Cup, you’d let me have anything,” he whispers quickly. “Well, this is it.”
> 
> Steve’s eyes widen. “Oh?” He breathes, sounding nearly hopeful. “Right now?”
> 
> “Tonight,” Bucky corrects. “Are you busy?”
> 
> Steve shakes his head furiously. “I-I was going to draw up some new plays with Sam, but it can wait.”
> 
> Bucky grins. “Good. I need you to take me to the Forbidden Forest.” 
> 
> Steve blinks once, twice. “Oh,” he sighs, his shoulders sagging slightly under Bucky’s hands. “Why?”


End file.
